


Here's to the Static

by matildajones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Celebrity Derek, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Musician Derek, Student Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:34:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 80,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1321726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/matildajones/pseuds/matildajones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles spends most of his college break in a coffee house where he stares after Derek Hale. For some reason, Stiles is unaware of the fact he's quite the musician, and Derek amuses himself at Stiles' obliviousness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 “Holy shit,” he breathes, eyes starting to focus on his surroundings. He straightens, and from where he’s sitting he has quite the view of a delicious set of shoulders. Stiles' mouth parts slightly as he admires the hard pull of muscles underneath a navy shirt, eyes trailing over the cream tilt of the guy’s face, hooded by impressive eyebrows.

 He’s completely forgotten the essay he’s supposed to be writing and his shoulders want to rattle against the wooden chair, the amount of caffeine Stiles has consumed. He thinks it’s as good a time to give up anyway, throwing his highlighter across the coffee house table so that it clacks against the surface.

 The guy’s eyes are cast downwards, his eyelashes swept across his cheeks. A dark shade of stubble spreads around his jaw like flecks of charcoal, and Stiles can’t stop staring. He’s thinking about looking away, aware that this is bordering on _too much_ when the guy darts his startling eyes at Stiles.

 It’s almost as if he knows he’s being watched and it takes a second for Stiles to meet his gaze, too busy admiring the man’s arms. A small shiver runs along his spine when light coloured eyes bore into him. Stiles has the decency to blush, and turns his head towards the words on his computer screen.

 “Sorry,” he mumbles. He peeks again, ashamed of where his mind is heading and this time the guy looks up and glares. It’s rather impressive, actually, and Stiles’ body feels as if it’s been reduced to a single point.

 He deliberates opening his mouth, wondering how far the guy will go in regard to his blatant staring when he hears a dramatic sigh. It sounds like a leaking balloon and Stiles quirks his lip. The guy reaches into his pocket, shifting onto one side to do so and his body gives a slight twist.

 Stiles pointedly looks away. A few moments later a soft ball of paper grazes along his cheek, almost catching the corner of his eye. Stiles shoots a the guy a glare but he’s dipped his head down to his book.

 Sceptical, his fingers prod open the scrap of paper. There’s a small, dark scribble, smooth and well practiced. It looks like words? Lips curling in curiosity, he leans back on his chair more comfortably and its front feet stray away from the ground.

 “Uh, what’s this?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised.

 The guy stills for a moment before glancing up. “My name.”

 Stiles looks at the piece of paper again. Now that it’s obvious, the scribble does look like a name. Derek Hale. A brush of familiarity presses on his tongue.

 “Nice to know,” says Stiles, incredulousness seeping through him. It’s all just so...odd. What’s a name without a number? “What am I going to do with your name?”

 Derek sighs, again, before turning to his book. It doesn’t take much to notice the beginnings of a slight scowl.

 “Fine,” he mutters. Two can play at this game.

 Stiles pulls a napkin from the dispenser, the edge tearing a little. The only pen he’s got is the pink highlighter and the felt tip drags against the paper as he writes his name in large block letters. With a smirk, he signs it off with a winky face, delighting in the reaction he might get.

 He sits smug when the napkin hits Derek straight in the nose. The eyes opposite him narrow and Derek avoids Stiles' gaze like he’d burn his eyes out. Stiles’ heart flutters as rough fingers open the paper hastily, and Derek stares at it like it’s a foreign language. Stiles' nostrils flare in offense.

 Derek doesn’t say anything and Stiles is more than a little disappointed. The few seconds he waits is torture, and grudgingly he turns back to the dull glow of his screen. Stiles hears the scraping of the wooden chair against the floor and the guy is gone.

*

 He keeps the scrunched up piece of paper. The bin in the coffee house mocks him as his hand hovers over it, and eventually he gives up, scowling as he pockets the reminder he doesn’t quite need of Derek Hale. When he gets home, the paper a burning weight in his pocket, he shoves it between the pages of an old school textbook.

 The guy is at the coffee shop the following week, Stiles attempting not to admire the strong surge of legs as Derek enters the warm space. He is sitting with his back to the window, the curve of shoulder blades under Derek’s shirt catching his attention. Stiles licks his lips.

 Derek orders a double espresso and the new guy at the counter flails a little bit. Stiles frowns when the barista’s face flushes and gives a stammered _enjoy your coffee_. A large hand gripped around the top of the cup comes into Stiles’ view as Derek turns, and out of the corner of his eye he sees Derek’s lips press into a thin line.

 His feet hesitate at the floor before heading into the seat he was sitting in last week. It’s directly opposite Stiles, two tables down. They’re face on, like two bodies either end of an interrogation table, and the distance between them is infuriating.

 Stiles glances up and Derek’s eyeing him. His scrutiny dashes over Stiles’ skin, and he’s probably wondering if Stiles is going to open his mouth and irritate him. A part of him would love to do it; Stiles finding it difficult to let the man drink his coffee in peace.

 Trying to impress is a losing battle anyway, the guy is clearly not interested. Stiles leans back in his chair, arms folded, enjoying the way Derek seems to get more irritated the more Stiles settles into his smirk.

 His breath almost catches the longer they look at each other; the whole world balancing on the tip of a knife. It’s all very strange, and it eats at him as Derek’s gaze drops over Stiles as if he’s being systematically searched for faults. He doesn’t like the way Derek seems to be expecting a particular reaction from him, eyebrows lifted in preparation for an inevitable act.

 “You’re weird,” Stiles says eventually. It’s the only word that comes to mind when a whole series of more complimenting adjectives are strung together in his head.

 Derek’s eyes snap up a little. They have a little bronze tickle within the hazel, but his expression is definitely as hard as rock. Derek tilts his neck a little and the muscles strain. “You’re painfully moronic.”

 Stiles sniffs and leans forward on his elbow. “What’s a guy like you doing here? Are you visiting town?”

 “Yes,” he says curtly. His lip quivers in deliberation for a moment and Stiles tries to ease the words from Derek’s mouth with a slow, encouraging, yet slightly mocking nod. Stiles fiddles with a plastic spoon as he waits but Derek decides not to speak. It accidentally snaps in two between his fingers and the man snorts. Stiles is once again disappointed.

 Derek’s phone begins to ring and it’s the scratching static of some song he’s heard on the radio. Stiles winces. Derek peers at the caller ID and ignores the call before turning to his book; shoulders tense and hunched uncomfortably over the table.

 “That is a terrible ringtone,” Stiles finds himself saying. The glare he receives pounces on him and Stiles pulls back his hands, fingers spread out and palms facing Derek.

 “Your taste is faultless.”

 “Thanks,” says Stiles sourly. Perhaps he should get back to writing. He does some work for a while, biting at his lip as he tries to concentrate. The words fade in front of him, a wall around his mind, and he finds he can't do anything. Stiles groans.

 Derek glances at him. Oh, look, and now his eyebrow is raised.

 “Shut up,” mutters Stiles. It’s bridging on loud enough that now the other half of Derek’s face mimics the amused expression. But without another word, Derek rises from the table and disappears out the door. Stiles hopes he’ll see him again.

*

 Maybe Stiles spends a lot more time in that cafe doing a lot more work than he had anticipated. He’s pleasantly surprised when he realises that all the things on his checklist are done, and he’s caught in the limbo between being free and having to sell his soul again once classes start.

 Stiles sits back in his chair, hands behind his head, smiling gently at the beach print on the wall. The waves are still, coaxing up on the shore line and for once Stiles feels that way too. That is, until Derek Hale has wandered in again, this time wearing a leather jacket. It sparks a few creative thoughts in Stiles’ head, of motorcycles and grease and rippling muscles.

 Derek holds in an irritated breath when he spots Stiles, probably because their eyes catch and Stiles isn’t exactly doing anything but watching. Derek seems to brace himself as he sits in the exact same place, book under his arm.

 Stiles can’t bring himself to pack up and orders another coffee. Derek, unfortunately, has the self control not to glance up at Stiles, appearing sufficiently interested in his own book. God, after too much thinking about this one guy and his dark attractiveness, Stiles wants at least a look of acknowledgement.

 He notices when the man stills. Almost as if they were tied together, his own lungs refrain from working too. A sweep of deliberation passes over Derek’s face and his shoulders turn towards the counter before turning back again.

 “Why do you look so funny?” asks Stiles cheerfully.

 Derek gives him a long look, book tipping backwards for a moment. Then Stiles is ignored. A part of him thinks he had it coming, but his tongue itches to spout out even more nonsense. He doesn’t though, and stands straight, ready to pack up all his things.

 He must have been abrupt because Derek’s looking at him again, the tip of his teeth showing from his slightly open mouth. “What do you think of the song?” he asks quickly, jerking his chin down to get Stiles to sit again.

 Slowly, Stiles’ butt returns to the seat and he turns his ears to the speakers. He’s easily heard the song before; in his jeep, the bookstore, the supermarket. It was even the same as Derek’s ringtone the other day.

 He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s kind of scary.”

 For some reason this alarms Derek, but his wide eyes are immediately wiped away to something more sedate. “What do you mean?”

 “The guy’s voice is kind of rough and haunting. It’s not bad. Do you like the song?” he asks.

 “I guess,” replies Derek gruffly, turning back to his book. He turns the page with such a force Stiles swears he hears the paper tear.

 The inconsistency presented in this man makes Stiles frown. Standing again his fingers trail slowly over his belongings, piling them up before gathering them into his arms. His eyes don’t waver from Derek, whose forest coloured irises stay steadfastly attached to the page. The deliberate refusal to look at Stiles makes him mutter under his breath about manners.

*

 Stiles does not look Derek Hale up online. It takes a long stretch of self control not to because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s fallen to that kind of territory. He struggles to find things to do now that his assignments are over for the break.

 He drives over to the police department to pick his father up for lunch, spends an hour prattling on about school for his father’s benefit and then he’s over to bother Scott while he’s at work.

 On the way back home he gets groceries, and the weather’s turning nasty; grey clouds battling each other, the wind a whining dog. On the edge of the road is a car, bonnet stretched up like an open jaw. The car is nice, slick. Expensive.

 He doesn’t know what makes him stop. His jeep is way far down on the food chain of moving blocks of metal, but his father taught him to be a good citizen when he wasn’t going around making a nuisance. Pulling over and hearing the tyres skit against the gravel, he exits loftily from his car and knocks on the tinted window.

 Stiles settles his hands in his pockets, turning on his heel to awkwardly glance at the surrounding trees. The wind whips at his hair, and half a minute later the sound of glass being rolled down fills his ears. With a bright smile, he faces the driver. Then his face falls.

 “Oh it’s you,” Derek Hale says in a dry voice, hand clasped around a phone. He holds a finger up to tell him to wait as he speaks shortly into the phone. “Yes?”

 Stiles rolls his eyes, heart beating slightly. “Uh, do you need help? Do you need a jump start?”

 Derek stares at him, eyes doing a steely once over. Stiles can’t be bothered leaning over the window anymore, uncomfortable having his face only a couple of feet away from Derek's. “Yes, actually,” he says.

 “Great,” says Stiles lightly.

 He returns with the jumper leads and Derek has the hood up, leaning casually against its side, his arm raised. The bottom of his shirt has inched upwards and Stiles is far enough away that he can look without being seen at it. The sliver of skin is riveting, the wind pressing Derek’s shirt firmly against his body so that it clings to the curve of his abdomen.

 “What’s your name?” asks Derek, his eyes a blanket of scrutiny. He ducks his head, the heavy set of Derek’s eyebrows and the constancy of his look enough to make him think that Derek’s only waiting for him to slip up in some way.

 “I already gave you my name,” he mutters in return. Perhaps Derek had already forgotten it.

 Derek snorts. “ _That_ was your name?”

 Stiles cranes his neck up from the engine, giving a scowl. “Don’t give me that. You were the one who gave me your name on a piece of paper first. Normally, you leave a number with it too.”

 Derek raises his eyebrows, lip quirked in amusement and disbelief. “You were staring,” he says smugly and as a way of explanation.

 “How did your battery even get flat here?” asks Stiles, ignoring his statement.

 Derek sighs. “I went for a walk. Left the lights on.”

 “In there?” Stiles gestures towards the trees. “That’s private property.”

 “I am aware,” says Derek curtly.

 Stiles gives him a pointed look, but shrugs it off, clipping the leads and heading over to his car. His keys fumble in his hand, and he slides into his seat before his engine starts. Soon, Derek’s too gives a rumble of life and Stiles’ sweaty hands leave his steering wheel, working himself up to facing Derek again.

 Guilt begins to well up inside him, aware that he really shouldn’t have been spending so much time with Derek in his thoughts. He doesn’t want to falter and make it obvious when his stupid crush is based entirely on nothing.

 “So,” says Derek, looking amused, his car finally purring gently. “Do you feel you’re in tune with popular culture? Music?”

 Stiles glances up. “Uh, sure?”

 The answer seems to satisfy Derek; an arrogant smirk appearing on his face. “And what would you do if you met some sort of celebrity?”

 “Oh, we don’t get them here in small towns,” Stiles waves off easily. “Maybe at college? Nah. Unlikely.”

 “What do you think you would do?” presses Derek. He seems to be sitting up straighter, teeth gleaming wickedly as he waits for a response. There's an impressive amount of words strolling out of Derek’s mouth right now when there are usually five at most.

 Stiles is under the impression he’s humouring Derek, and a little twinge of his heart wants to comply. “I’d jump on them.”

 Derek raises his eyebrows so far it’s like they’ve fallen off a cliff. Whistling a little and trying to ignore the flush of embarrassment he’s brought upon himself, he retrieves the leads and wanders back to his car with a slight wave.

*

 “There’s this hot guy at the coffee shop I’ve been annoying,” Stiles tells Lydia. She shoots him a dry look and the idea that he annoys everyone is probably not far from her mind.

 “Does he work there?” she asks, an expectant pout on her lips.

 “No,” Stiles admits.

 “Then why are you dragging me there when I could be doing something else? You can’t even ensure that this hot piece of ass is going to be there,” she sparks, turning away from Stiles and sitting back into the passenger seat.

 Stiles shrugs. “He’s tastefully hot.”

 “At least it means you haven’t resorted to learning some poor barista’s hours off by heart,” Lydia says in an even tone. Stiles scowls at her, jerking the jeep around the corner a little too harshly.

 “I’d do no such thing,” he claims. If he ever did, it would be by accident.

 Stiles starts when they enter the coffee shop and Lydia crashes into his back. She flicks the back of his head and strides over to the counter to order their drinks. Derek is sitting at his usual table, and the sharp gleam of the one Stiles frequents is empty, pleasantly alone.

 Stiles wanders forwards, nudges Lydia and gestures over to Derek. His back is to the counter and in his hands lies another book. His leather jacket hangs on the back of his chair and his light blue shirt stretches firmly over his skin. Lydia shoves away his nudging hands to spin around and her eyebrows raise, suitably impressed.

 “Name?” she asks quietly behind her red-ribbon hair.

 “Derek.”

 “Hmm,” Lydia says. “You go over. I’ll wait for the drinks.”

 Stiles accepts her order willingly, all limbs as he makes his way to his table. Stiles flops down wearing a pleasant grin as he shrugs off his jacket.

 “How’s your car?” he asks loudly, and more than one person looks over.

 Derek’s eyes flick up. “Fine,” he says slowly.

 Stiles presses his lips into a thin line, smile residing. But Derek hasn’t looked away just yet and opportunity buzzes over his skin. “Good book?”

 “Yes,” replies Derek. “But given your wide knowledge of music I doubt you’d ever heard of the book I’m reading now.”

 He narrows his eyes, the bone dry tone of Derek’s voice clearly making fun of him. The words _try me_ dangle on his tongue, nostrils flared as Derek turns away. At least Lydia is coming over with two cups of coffee. She glances at Stiles’ irritated expression and rolls her eyes. Then she turns to Derek and her mouth drops open.

 “Stiles,” she says, eyes widening at the sight of Derek. “That’s Derek –”

 “Oh my God, Lydia,” hisses Stiles, waving his hand manically for her to sit. He doesn’t want Derek to know he’s been spoken of to his friends. But at least a piece of him feels smug because her reaction means he didn’t exaggerate Derek’s attractiveness with his own blurred bias.

 Derek chooses this moment to look up and Stiles resists the urge to cover his face with his hands. Lydia’s eyes flit between the two of them and the air feels tight. Derek shrugs at her, eyebrows glancing at Stiles. He glares back and tugs on Lydia’s arm to sit down.

 “Right,” she says, swishing her hips as she sits and flicking her bright hair over her shoulder. She has her back to Derek, and past her ear Stiles can see all of Derek’s neck and face if he shuffles his seat marginally to the right.

 The expressions the two wear could be mirrors, amusement playing within the frame of their faces. Derek’s biting his lip, gaze cast downwards and there’s an empty blur in Stiles’ brain that occurs when he knows he's not getting something.

 “Did you watch the MTV video music awards last month Stiles?” Lydia asks rather loudly.

 Stiles’ face scrunches up. “Uh, no. Why would I?”

 “No reason,” Lydia says in a dry voice. Stiles swears he sees Derek’s body jump behind her once in laughter. Unknown riddles spill around him, riddles he swears Derek and Lydia know the answers to.

 A little while later she begins to hum, seemingly absentmindedly as she sips her coffee.

 “What are you doing?”

 “Nothing,” Lydia says innocently, but she continues. Stiles recognises the song. He’s pretty sure it was the same one Derek was asking him about, and sure enough when Stiles' eyes travel a little to the side Derek’s looking straight at the back of Lydia’s head, lip curled. “For the love of me I can’t remember name of this song!” she exclaims, looking extremely put out.

 “Don’t look at me,” says Stiles. “I don’t know.”

 “You don’t know this song?” Lydia stares at him like he’s an idiot.

 “Yes, I do, I just don’t know what it’s called,” he hisses at her.

 “Or evidently who it’s by,” she mutters. Lydia turns her shoulders gracefully, manicured fingers on the table before she directs the question towards Derek. Stiles wants to kick her.

 He questions his sanity in bringing Lydia here in the first place.

 “Do you know?” she asks rather pointedly.

 “Lydia.”

 Derek’s warm coloured eyes stare at her a moment. “Tides,” he replies curtly.

 She scrunches up her nose in thanks, before turning, smug, back to Stiles.

 “Don’t ask me if I like it, _he_ already has,” he says, frustrated, and he’s slightly worried when Lydia yelps out in laughter.

 Stiles manages to shift the conversation to something he can contribute to, nerves settling when Derek slides out of his chair effortlessly and exits the coffee shop.

 “I wonder if he can play the guitar,” she says innocently, and Stiles is instantly plagued by thoughts of those fingers lulling over strings, worshiping the guitar like he wished Derek would worship his body.

 Lydia reaches forward and ruffles his hair. “You’re an idiot,” she says, fond.

 He bats her hand away, grumbling in confusion. What has he done to warrant that statement this time?

 “And I wouldn’t get your hopes up about Derek; he’s probably got a life.”

 “As if I need reminding,” Stiles shoots at her. Lydia shakes her head incredulously, lips pursed like they’re the locks to some ridiculous secret.

*

 Dragging Lydia along had clearly been a bad idea, so he heads to the coffee house alone. He places a shield in his mind, aware of the unhealthy direction his actions and thoughts have taken. He wants something, something he is probably not going to get.

 The coffee swirls over his tongue and he hears a short sigh at the door before his eyes travel over to Derek. Stiles’ spine straightens, and Derek’s eyes sweep over him with the barest hint of acknowledgement.

 “Hello to you too,” Stiles mutters when he finally sits, holding his cup over his face in a half–hearted attempt at hiding. Derek’s visits have been decidedly irregular, and while he’s been here every day at some time or another, he’s not sure whether he’s happy at Derek’s visit finally coinciding with his.

 “Why do you come here?” blurts out Stiles.

 Derek’s eyes roll before grimacing at Stiles. “It’s quiet.”

 “Oh right,” he replies, a little louder than normal. Derek glares at him. “I thought it was because the coffee was good.”

 “Why do you come here?” he asks pointedly, and the tips of Stiles’ ears go red

 “Like I said,” Stiles says a little absently. “The coffee.”

 “Did your friend say anything about me?” Derek says directly. His face doesn’t turn away, demanding an answer from Stiles’ lips. His heart sinks a little.

 “She’s dating someone,” he mumbles. Derek rolls his eyes, but judging from the fact the tips of his lips have quirked up slightly and he’s turned back to his book, he seems to have gotten his answer.

 His own book lies shut in his hands. Everything is ridiculous, but Derek's right there, falling under Stiles’ own definition of beautiful and he can’t bring himself to look away.

 Hastily, he climbs to his feet and waves at the barista. He can’t subject himself to this any longer and he doesn’t have even a spoonful of courage to ask a question. What would he say? _Would you like to get coffee with me?_

 His bank account is depleting rapidly, and Isaac, the barista, has managed to memorise his order. Stiles is a college student, for God’s sake. He can’t afford all these coffees because he’s been staring helplessly at Derek. It’s embarrassing.

 The legs of the chair cling to the ground and screech when Stiles moves back. Derek’s eyes dart forward and it looks like he’s been snapped out of a dream. “You’re going?” he asks, but then he bites back into his chair like he didn’t mean for those words to slip out.

 Stiles presses his lips together. He nods, and Derek sort of gives him a vague nod back.

*

 He only goes into the shop the next time because he left his book. The squeak of his shoes against the ground distracts him as he travels in a direct line towards the counter. Stiles doesn’t want to look at where he normally sits, he doesn’t want his skin to jump up or his heart to be overly disappointed. He’s not actually sure what scenario he wants anymore, and is happy to leave it for fate to decide.

 “Isaaaac,” Stiles draws out. “I left my book here; did you happen to pick it up?”

 Isaac steps around the coffee machine and greets Stiles with a small smile. “No. There was no book.”

 Stiles twists around to look at the table, frowning in disappointment. He flushes when he sees Derek is at his usual table. He turns back to Isaac.

 “You sure?”

 He nods helpfully, and noticing Stiles notice Derek, he smirks. “Should I get your order?”

 “If you must,” sighs Stiles, fishing out his wallet from his back pocket. Isaac reaches out a hand.

 “Dude, you’re in the system. This is your free coffee.”

 Stiles relaxes. At least one of his inhibitions has been removed from his list. “Good, okay. Thanks.”

 He doesn’t have anything to do and it’s awkward sitting here without his book. Stiles taps his fingers against the ceramic of his coffee cup, and he manages to scrutinise every part of the room except for where Derek’s seated.

 It’s surprisingly easy, but he wants to kick himself when he notices straight away the sudden and sharp smile Derek gives him.

 “What?” asks Stiles carefully.

 “You left your book.”

 Stiles gives him an accusatory look, but Derek ignores it and chucks the paperback over the table. Stiles has to fling his coffee away so that it doesn’t get knocked over, and hot sparks of liquid drip over his hand. Derek shrugs.

 “ _Thanks_ ,” Stiles says a little angrily.

 Derek’s eyes move away again, but as if they are on a slippery track they’re back at Stiles.

 “You’re reading McCartney’s biography?” he asks.

 “Obviously,” says Stiles with a grin.

 “I’ve met him,” Derek informs and there’s that slight smirk that makes Stiles know he’s part of a joke. But Derek sounds perfectly honest, even if he is a bit boastful.

 “Good for you, dude. I met Justin Timberlake once,” he actually saw a glimpse of his profile the only time they had travelled away from this small town for a holiday. Derek does not need to know the details, however.

“I’ve met him too,” he says, this time showing a little teeth with his smile. It’s a little bit worth being made fun of to see the terrifyingly gorgeous spread of lips Derek's face is capable of. “I’m surprised you actually know the name of a current singer.”

 Stiles frowns. “Of course I know the names of current singers.”

 Derek’s eyebrows do that thing again where they quiver like his whole face is trying really, really hard not to laugh. He just clears his throat and turns back to his novel. Isaac is hovering close, cleaning the next table over and it’s as if he’s trying not to laugh as well.

 Several times he tries to initiate conversation, but he gives up before he’s even formed a word.

*

 It’s the last day before he’s off to college again and even though he hasn’t been here in a few days, one last time in the store can’t hurt him. Isaac catches his eye and waves his hand for him to sit while he makes the coffee.

 He almost doesn’t notice Derek sitting there because he’s not alone. A dark haired beauty sits opposite Derek, blocking the view and talking sweetly yet menacingly at the same time. Stiles shifts his chair slightly to the side, and that’s better, he can see Derek.

 On the phone with Lydia last night she asked if he had figured it out yet when talking about Derek. He bites at his uncertainty over the matter, sure he’s missing something important, but ultimately he puts it down to the hopelessness present at the seams of every coffee encounter.

 “Hi Stiles,” calls Isaac loudly, placing the coffee on the table. He’s already got a few bills handy and he stuffs it in Isaac’s hand. The brunette twists around and with a delighted look, stares Stiles down.

 “Um, hi?” he says, confused.

 “Laura,” he hears Derek growl, but she’s already off her seat and has plonked herself down next to Stiles.

 “Derek,” she tells off, pouting in annoyance. “He’s kind of young.”

 Her eyes rake him, and this Laura is certainly friendlier than Derek, but equally as disarming.

 “I’m twenty,” Stiles says, affronted.

 “In advance,” she says over him, “I would like to apologise for my brother’s behaviour.”

 “Um, okay? Wait, what?” Stiles hears himself saying, straightening and staring at Derek like he’s a block of bricks. Derek sighs and closes his book.

 “I’m not even going to apologise for my sister.”

 “Good,” says Laura, her voice dripping in a rich honey. Her fingers are placed territorially on Stiles’ arm, examining him. “So you really don’t know?”

 “Know what?” asks Stiles, turning panicked. Derek’s standing with a fiery expression and he steps over to place his hands on Laura’s shoulders. He squeezes a little before pulling her up, her eyes rolling as she gives in to his touch. Derek guides her back over to the table.

 “You guys are being overly cryptic!” he almost yells, but upon their amused expressions Stiles turns back to scowl at his coffee.

 The two seem to have a not so quiet but wordless conversation that he’s fairly sure he’s the subject of. He deliberates saying something to get the anger out of his body, but with his jaw clenched he’s too distressed for it to be anything appropriate.

 At least the girl is his sister. There’s that, but the information is dulled by the fact that Stiles is leaving tomorrow. He wishes he hadn’t wasted his break on a guy that only sometimes shows glimmers of actually wanting to talk to Stiles. His father and Scott deserve better company from him, even if he’s seen the two almost every night.

 Stiles drowns the rest of the coffee and standing, clears his throat. The two seem to stop their wordless bicker.

 “Nice to meet you,” he says politely to Laura.

 “Please just ask him what he’s not telling you,” she says in reply. “Since this one has made me promise not to say anything.” Laura shoots him a glare.

 “Have you met the dude?” asks Stiles, his voice echoes around. “He’s not exactly forthcoming with information. Besides, it doesn’t matter. I’m back to school tomorrow and I doubt we’ll ever see each other again. So. Yeah. Bye?”

 Derek looks at him, startled. He gives a curt nod and Laura is muttering her brother’s name like he’s a fucking idiot. Stiles agrees wholeheartedly but that’s only because he’s angry at himself for pining after a god damn stranger.

*

 When the gears in Stiles’ brain finally move together and click in the most frustrating way, he’s on the phone to Lydia. He doesn’t even let her speak when she answers, because his eyes are glued to a video on his computer screen and there is that gorgeous face, complete with an easy smile. It’s taken him a whole bloody month of late night thoughts and silver moons trying to forget about Derek.

 “Guess you think you have a fucking funny sense of humour, Lydia, don’t you? Guess who I just saw on the tv and who I just googled? Oh god, it makes my pathetic crush even more tragic. Oh my god, why didn’t you tell me?” he hisses.

 There’s a long sigh. “I suppose it’s more tragic because you’re definitely not the only person in the world who has jerked off to the thought of him?”

 Stiles fights the urge to hang up on her and he can hear the smirk seep its way through the phone’s speakers.

 “Why did you let me pine for someone who was so desperately unattainable?”

 “You already _thought_ that he was unattainable, besides, he seemed to be having fun,” she points out. Stiles growls at her and he cuts the call with a jab of his thumb. He paces his dorm room for a bit, Scott looking at him anxiously with a bowl of popcorn over his legs.

 “Care to explain?” he asks, gesturing to the scowl on Stiles’ face. A whole bunch of things start to wind together to make fucking sense, and he wants to punch the feelings of any person who kept this from him.

 Stiles collapses onto his own bed and points at the interview. “That, my friend, is coffee house guy.”

 "Woah," Scott's voice echoes. "Derek as in Derek Hale? Stiles, where have you been?"

 Stiles nods miserably, painfully examining his own ignorance. He feels like the butt of every joke combined.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading:)
> 
> I am [matildajones](http://matildajones.tumblr.com) on tumblr :)


	2. Chapter 2

 It’s the summer. Stiles has got work at that same cafe and from the counter the view is reminiscent of a few memories of lurking behaviour. It all scatters into the realisation that Derek only talked to him because Stiles was an ignorant amusement, mildly entertaining at best.

 Isaac is working with him too and often has the shift after him. The first day Stiles stares him down with folded arms and begins to hum the same song Lydia once did. It is a good song, he has to admit, but he’s sure as hell not going to let that statement tear out of his throat.

 “Sorry!” Isaac says instantly. “He tipped us crazy well not to say anything.”

 “So he talked about me?” Stiles asks, almost a bit too eagerly because Isaac’s look has turned pitiful. He backtracks. “You let me look like an idiot!”

 “He was a good tipper,” he repeats, almost mournfully. “It’s a shame you found out.” Before Stiles can say anything Isaac slips into the back room. Stiles scowls at no one.

 It’s fairly quiet at work except for the occasional bursts of customers. Scott comes to visit after working at the vet, Stiles slipping him free coffees when he’s sure he won’t get caught. He tries to get the late shifts at the same time his father does at the station, and more often than not they’re working at the same time. Stiles remains half bored, but the numbers are rising in his bank account.

 The place is deserted at seven in the evening, two weeks into him working there. Stiles is fairly sure they’re not going to get any more customers, and the clock over the door strikes its seconds past Stiles’ ears while he counts the hours before he can leave. Three.

 When the bell chimes his eyes are drooping, his slouch letting his butt slide to the edge of the seat. He’s too tired to jump up and plaster on a customer winning smile and instead groans to a stand. Stiles hears an impatient growl and he resists the urge to roll his eyes as he turns.

 But it’s Derek Hale. His bones turn to glass, and with a start  Stiles knocks over a stand of paper cups. They clatter to the floor like they’re giggling and both he and Derek stare at the cups until the last one stops moving.

 Derek opens his mouth to speak, but Stiles holds up a jabbing finger.

 “Don’t even think about playing games with me – oh my god you actually look disappointed,” Stiles’ warning falls into disbelief, his hand dropping pathetically to his side.

 Derek frowns and it’s not like he’s gotten less attractive since the last time they met. His coffee ground stubble has progressed to more of a beard, and the distance over the counter is small enough that Stiles can see the hovering of Derek’s eyelashes, thick, while his lips look rough and inviting. Stiles snaps his gaze up.

 “Took you long enough,” Derek finally sighs.

 “Apparently I got your album for Christmas last year,” Stiles says, voice slightly higher than usual.

 “I’m so glad it struck a chord,” Derek says dryly, before ordering his coffee. He doesn’t wait around like he did before. Derek slams the cash and tip on the counter before striding out like he's about to flick a bug off his shoulder.

 Stiles shamelessly stares at Derek’s behind as he leaves. He excuses his behaviour considering there are whole blogs dedicated to it, and the spit of anger rattling in Stiles isn’t going to let him feel bad for it.

*

 Derek is at the counter the next afternoon, giving an eye roll when he notices Stiles working again. Derek doesn’t even pretend to make it discreet. Stiles stares at him plainly and pleasantly, voice tight as he tries not to veer from the script he was given first day on the job.

 He barks his order and Stiles gives him a long look, neck tilting to the side even after he’s made the drink. There’s a scowl, and it’s tantalisingly becoming more prominent.

 “ _Wait,_ didn’t you have your own song as your ringtone?”

 “That was my sister’s doing,” he says stiffly.

 Stiles laughs, the sound bouncing off the food cabinet. Derek’s glare intensifies. When he passes the coffee over,  Stiles' lip is bitten. 

 All Derek's manners dissipate when he stuffs the money on the counter, except for a small gruff of reluctant thanks. 

 Stiles supposes if he wants the tips to continue he really shouldn’t say anything vaguely biting to Derek. The temptation rises, but Stiles settles for an extremely cheery, “you’re welcome!” He swears Derek skips a step on his way out, but perhaps that was his imagination.

 When he gets home he listens to that damn album. It is good. Some songs he likes, some he doesn’t but mostly it’s raw but full. He imagines that sweeping voice escaping pink lips and Stiles rips the headphones out of his ears and shoves the disc at the very back of the music cabinet.

*

 Derek’s scowl is present as he enters the shop. There is a glossy book under his arm and Stiles straightens because he’ll probably find himself looking at the back of Derek’s head for half an hour. With a smile, he waits for Derek’s order as if he’s already forgotten it.

 “Double espresso,” he says, exasperated.

 Stiles eyes him while making the coffee, his fingers counting the ways he can be irritating to a guy he hasn’t seen for months, but won’t look him dead in the eye anymore. Stiles wonders what has changed in Derek’s blurred land of fame.

 “I hope your self esteem didn’t crash because I didn’t know who you were,” says Stiles mockingly, sliding the cup across the counter painfully slowly.

 “No,” says Derek, looking down at his hands while he leafs through his cash. “It was refreshing.”

 “Right. And it’s not now?”

 Finally, Derek pulls his chin up and gloriously hazel eyes stare at Stiles. They even flit down the coffee shop’s shirt that Stiles is forced to wear, and Derek drags up an eyebrow with his gaze. Stiles scowls but quickly drops the expression when he realises he doesn’t have his tip yet. He’s painfully aware that Derek can afford to give generously there.

 Derek’s shoulders shake as if he’s laughing to himself. How he manages to do this without actually smiling is lost on Stiles, and the silence plasters to the air around them. Of course Derek doesn’t answer. He just moves his body around to sit at the same table he did last semester break.

 Over the course of the hour Derek’s shoulders become visibly more at ease. They melt back into his skin and a tense band sort of ripples away. When he finally leaves the shop, his lips are relaxed and hanging a little to reveal the dip of white teeth. It’s a nice look.

*

 “So are you visiting family or something?” Stiles asks.

 Derek’s eyes pan dreadfully slowly over the room before they stop on Stiles. The annoyance he places on Stiles is heavy, and Stiles flushes. 

 “Yes.”

 “Do you get to do it much?” he says, letting hope rise a little. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t show.

 “No.”

 “You know your sister is pretty nice. Well, at least compared to you. You should bring her around again,” Stiles comments, accidentally spilling the grinded powder on his skin. He brushes it off as the machine starts. “Maybe you could vary your order or something, try out a pastry. I hear they’re pretty good. I take a few for my friend if I’m on at the end of the day, so I know what I’m talking about.”

 “Stiles,” grits out Derek. He stops speaking in surprise because Derek remembers his name without him ever having worn a name tag. That is a miracle in itself so he does the poor bastard a favour and shuts up. He smirks when Derek’s eyes widen in bewilderment that Stiles’ lips managed to close without Derek having to resort to an icy glare.

 Stiles sighs to himself and prepares drinks like it’s a dance for a funeral.

*

 Stiles is humming to himself, acting like the world can’t hurt him. When the next customer arrives he asks for their order in a singsong sort of voice, light and carefree. He gets asked why he’s so happy and a mischievous pout falls onto his face. They take their drink and get out quickly.

 Derek has already been in without a word, like the spit in his mouth is tar that stops him from speaking despite Stiles' questions. For the past week it’s been like this, Derek’s bored expression and affirmative grunts scraping at Stiles’ nerves.

 His grin lies stretched on his face, spreading out when Derek turns around to find his favourite seat taken by a man with grey hair. He pauses, unsure where to sit and Stiles snorts.

 Derek’s shoulders twist and he sends Stiles a sour look, as if this is definitely his fault. Indecision on Derek’s face is like a moth in the night and to Stiles’ delight, Derek chooses the seat with his back to the window.  Here, Stiles can see the way the ceiling lights dust shadows over Derek’s cheekbones.

 He tries to keep his face neutral when the music begins to play, watching Derek out of the corner of his eye. Internally, Stiles whoops when he sees him stiffen. The closing notes drift off, and relief oozes out of Derek’s skin but then the second song from his album starts to play.

 He whips his head around to the counter just as Stiles turns away.

 “How can I help you?” Stiles asks chirpily to Derek's glare when he approaches.

 “Can you turn that off, it’s not just one song it’s the whole album,” he says darkly.

 Stiles makes a long sound of agreement, nodding enthusiastically like Derek’s told him he’s won fifty dollars. “Yeah, I agree with you, it’s not very good is it?”

 “Just turn it off,” he snarls. Stiles' hands whip up, affronted.

 “That’s a bit feral, dude, besides I can’t,” he says simply, innocently apologetic. Derek’s chest rises, and fuck he’s hot. The edge of his jaw almost rolls around and Stiles wants to bite it; his forward gaze probably saying as much.

 “You can’t?” he asks sceptically.

 “You need a four digit code.”

 “And you don’t know it?” Derek snaps.

 Stiles shrugs. “Very well guessed.”

 Derek sucks a breath through his teeth. If Stiles thinks about it, he’s seen a considerably grumpier Derek this summer, eyebrows constantly bent together and scowl never far away. Not for the first time, he’s pondering what has happened in Derek’s life over the last few months.

 Stiles doesn’t have to be intrigued to let it stop him making things easier for Derek. He remembers far too well being made fun of, resents the fact Derek seems to be so cold.

 “I bet I could guess it,” he says darkly, eyes flitting over Stiles’ face and neck like he wants to slit it.

 “Oh really?”

 “L-i-a-r.”

 A sharp peal of laughter leaves Stiles’ throat. “Ooh, how clever, but no. How about I guess? J-e-r-k.” He directs the word at Derek with a harsh click of his tongue.

 He receives a glare. Which isn’t saying much since he’s been glared at all morning, it feels like. Derek sweeps away from the counter like he’s leaving a battle not worth fighting and collects his things in sharp, jagged movements. The door rattles on its hinges when Derek leaves.

 “Attractive piece of shit,” mutters Stiles. He doesn’t know why he’s putting himself through this.

*

 Okay, so he feels a little guilty for Derek storming out of the shop like smoke might choke him flat, so when Derek comes in for his next coffee he plasters his feet firmly on the ground and tries to be nice. Friendly, even. He takes extra care on Derek’s espresso, keeping it clean and precise.

 “You know, it’s pretty scary not knowing what you’re going to do when you leave college. Do I stay here? Do I leave state? It must be nice having a solid career already,” Stiles shrugs. “I can’t imagine –”

 “Will you stop trying to talk to me?” snaps Derek.

 Stiles looks up, lips hanging open a little. A wave of rejection falters over his body, wrapping around his limbs like he’s being suffocated. But it quickly changes to anger, and then complete intolerance for this bullshit.

 “Just because I’m no longer an amusement to you doesn’t mean you can just stop talking to me,” he says dirtily.

 Derek's silence expresses his view on the matter, reaching for the coffee Stiles has just laid on the bench. But Stiles’ long fingers are still snaked around the hot cup, his refusal to let go burning his palm slightly. He feels the rough line of Derek’s hand as it tries to curve around his purchase, and the firm press of hot skin is worse than the boiling coffee inside.

 Stiles swallows. “Oh my god, am I not good enough for you anymore now that you can’t make fun of me?”

 “I assure you, if you want to be made fun of I can manage that quite easily,” Derek says, swiping his coffee from under Stiles’ grip, and a spoonful of liquid to sloshes out of the plastic lid and over Stiles’ hand. He flinches, snatching his fingers away from Derek and his darkly amused expression.

 Stiles wrinkles his nose, pissed, but heart also sinking with disappointment. 

*

 Laura comes into the shop with a bright smile. “Hello Stiles!”

 He stares at her, shooting his hands out by his sides to avoid fumbling with anything. His mouth presses together and his eyebrows scrunch downwards, trying to warrant why Laura Hale is being a lot friendlier than her brother.

 She smirks at him, bounding up the counter and she waits for Stiles to get a hold of himself.

 “Hi,” he finally says.

 “How are you?” she asks pointedly.

 “Fine,” he’s sure he’s missing something. “Coffee?”

 Laura smiles and orders politely. At least now Stiles can vouch that they haven’t been raised by people completely out of tune with reality, because here’s one sibling that’s showing astute politeness.

 “Haven’t seen Derek in a while,” he tries to say casually, staring at his busily working hands.

 She gives him a sly look, but it’s easily masked by her fond smile. “He’s writing a lot again. Kind of angry things, but that’s okay.”

 “He wasn’t writing?” he doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

 Laura shrugs, not really fussed. Like Derek, she leaves a decent tip but she hovers at the counter longer than necessary, her lipstick smile sticky but friendly.

 “Do you want anything else?”

 “Did you say something to Derek?” she asks instead of answering. 

 “No, but I should’ve called him a giant bag of dicks,” he says before he can stop himself. A blush smears over his cheeks. “I didn’t mean,” he tries to squeak out, but Laura waves her hand across his words.

 “Oh,” she says. “I thought, I thought maybe you had something to do with it.”

 Stiles raises his eyebrows and ignores that obviously provocative statement. He's sure he's had nothing to do with anything, and asks a question that's been bothering him lately. “Does Derek actually smile at home, or just on the television?”

 Laura looks even more disappointed. “He smiles.”

 “Oh,” says Stiles.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I cut the chapter off here because it seemed like a good break from what comes next, so sorry if it's a bit shorter.
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying the story. I'm liking Stiles more here since he kind of calls Derek out on some bullshit. At least, I think so. 
> 
> I am [matildajones](http://matildajones.tumblr.com) on tumblr, feel free to comment or send a message!


	3. Chapter 3

 “For the last time,” Stiles says at the disgruntled customer. “I’m not making you another coffee without you paying for it. You can’t keep saying it’s not right after you drink three quarters of the thing when your problem is clearly that you don’t know how to ask for what you want! I’m perfectly fine with brewing up a whole lot of different shit until you find what you do like, but you have to pay for it! I want to keep my job.”

 “If you’re so keen on keeping your job why don’t you do what I say before I contact your manager,” the guy hisses, running a hand along the dark hair that’s starting to go white behind his ears. Stiles scrunches up his nose in disgust. He’s pretty sure his manager will take his word over this dick of a stranger who has been haggling him for at least the past half hour.

 He’s feeling off balanced when the door chimes, but two figures walk in and it’s the Hales. With a grimace he turns back to the customer. “Now, that’s four dollars fifty.”

 “It was four dollars just before,” the git says with a snarl.

 “That was because you said the small size was too small,” he says in a hard voice, holding the drink in his hand. “Then I asked if you wanted a size up. Then you said yes.”

 “Listen, douche, I’m not paying for this piece of shit. You were the one who did it wrong in the first place,” he insists.

 “Uh, no. You ordered wrong.” His eyes flit to Derek staring blatantly at the menu, while Laura looks concerned. Stiles is just getting bored now and the guy kind of reminds him of an older Jackson, though not nearly as good looking.

 “Just give me the fucking drink,” the guy hisses; unaware that there’s people behind him. “Or I’ll shove a brick up your ass.”

 “Little fucking dick,” he says under his breath, rolling his eyes dramatically. That’s what does it though, because before he knows it a rough hand has gripped at his shirt and the other one has smashed into his face. A searing pain tears at his eyes, and he’s lost his footing and falls hard on his ass.

 He can feel his nose dripping as the guy, who probably is poorly endowed, hollers “ _what did you just call me_?” Stiles is just impressed with himself because he managed to keep the drink spillage to a minimum. Dazed and head spinning, he stands and Derek’s got the guy’s arms pinned around his back, gripping at his hair and his face looks like it might tear away from the rest of his body.

 Laura stands aside, almost curious, shaking her head but making no effort to calm her brother down. Carefully, Stiles places the cup on the counter aware that his vision is a little blurred from his stinging tears.

 “Apologise,” Derek orders in a gruff voice, teeth grinding close to the guy’s ear. A hot burst of embarrassment laced with anger passes through Stiles, because god forbid he has to be _saved_.

 “No,” he spits. Derek yanks him tighter and the guy begins to squirm in pain. “Fine, sorry, sorry, sorry.”

 “Now,” says Derek evenly, twisting the guy’s arm whenever he tries to move. Onlookers stare at the scene, faces wrinkled in concern when they see Stiles’ flooding nose. Grabbing the first thing he sees, Stiles uses the stupid company shirt to stuff his now very tender nose, even though there are serviettes somewhere. “You are going to take your coffee and leave.”

 “He hasn’t paid,” his voice is muffled through the shirt.

 Derek rolls his eyes at Stiles’ voice, and Stiles is swept with frustration that it’s resorted to this. He doesn’t want to be looked after or protected by anyone, let alone famous, artful, admired Derek Hale. There’s an overwhelming urge to punch someone back, to yank at a torso and have his fist collide with bone. He’s not sure if he aimed he would get the greying man. There’s been a lot Derek hasn’t answered for.

 “Fine,” he says. “You are going to pay and then you are going to leave, understood?”

 The guy nods and Derek loosens his hold enough that the man can get his wallet out of his pocket. His eyes look like they’re deliberating making a run for it, but Derek’s still dangerously close and does not look like he is going to be fucked with.

 He places a five dollar bill on the table, then turns but walks straight into Derek’s chest. His hands grip the man’s shoulders and he twists him around again. “Tip.”

 “Oh come on –” but there’s a growl and suddenly there’s another bill on the wooden surface.

 “Tip,” says Derek again, and both Laura and Stiles stare at Derek like all rationality has disappeared.

 “I only have twenties,” but Derek’s holding him tight again and Stiles is mortified. His whole face is red and at least it’s covered in blood because underneath his blush is as bright as poppies.

 “Fine,” the guy yelps, and there’s a twenty on the table. Derek pulls at him tighter, and then god, there’s another one.

 “Derek,” Laura says in a hard voice, and finally he lets the guy go, glaring at him with an intense dislike. Despite everything, it coaxes out a prick of hope in Stiles that Derek doesn’t hate him. Derek's certainly never looked at him with as much discontent. The guy goes for a fumbled throw at Derek, and amused, he easily avoids it.

 Then the guy gets an eyeful of Derek and his face goes white in surprise. “You’re Derek –”

 “Get. Out.”

 The man snatches his drink, brown stained drops on the side of the cup, and departs while Laura is busy scolding her brother. Stiles stares between the two of them, eyebrows raised and feeling icky with the blood drying on his face.

 “You okay, Stiles?” asks Laura, and great, now they’re both looking at him.

 “Can I take your order?” he manages in a broken voice.

 Derek snorts.

 It’s at this moment when Isaac comes in for his shift and his face pales as he takes in the sight. He’s looking at Stiles like he’s done something inappropriate or wrong and Stiles winces as he glares. Stiles picks up the money with one hand before the guy comes in with a lawsuit.

 “Do I want to know?” asks Isaac, and Laura gives a laugh. Stiles starts grumbling to himself, refusing to look at Derek because he’s staring at him, probably thinking that Stiles is made of paper. But then a flash of realisation comes that his body is exposed, and he drops his shirt back over his skin. Amused, Laura hands Stiles serviettes over the counter.

 “Derek should drive you home, you look a bit battered up,” she says when he takes a step back and sort of sways.

 “What? No.” Derek says quickly. Stiles narrows his eyes, standing there while Isaac in the back room quietly gets Stiles his things.

 “Honestly, he got punched in the face just drive him home would you?” Laura orders him in a steely voice.

 “That is quite okay,” Stiles manages behind the wad of white around his still leaking nose. He is getting a bit dizzy, but he will ignore it for the sake of his pride _._ A block of stubbornness is thrown at him and he’s not accepting a ride from _Derek Hale_ , and he’s certainly going to voice that opinion.

 “You’ve been hit in the face, your opinion doesn’t count,” she says breezily, and Derek’s mumbling a _fine_ , shoulders sinking slightly, threatening stance gone.

 Laura looks at him expectantly while her brother avoids Stiles’ gaze. Nothing seems to happen, as if they are all caught in a limbo until Isaac pushes Stiles' back gently, pressing his bag into his hands. Grudgingly he makes his way around the counter, aware that while he thinks he can drive, the people around him obviously thinks he can’t.

 Following the leather jacket, Stiles finds himself wandering towards the same expensive looking car that had broken down on the side of the road. The wind outside ripples at Derek’s hair, and until they’re at the car the silence is as comfortable as chalk over a black board.

 His hands reach out for the door handle and over the top of the car Derek points at him.

 “Don’t you dare get any blood on the seats,” he warns.

 Stiles narrows his eyes, seething at no one as Derek drops into the car.

 He wonders what kind of music Derek listens to, being a musician and all, but he keeps the radio off. Stiles tells him where he lives and Derek nods.

 “That was probably bad for your publicity,” he says after a while.

 “People make up shit about me all the time,” Derek points out without so much a glance in Stiles’ direction.

 “I wonder why,” Stiles mutters, and at least he hears an exasperated sigh come from Derek.

 The rusty coating of blood makes his skin feel tight, every brush of fabric against his skin making it irritated and prickly. The bleeding has stopped by now, but he still holds the cloth to his face so that he can try to hide what he’s thinking from Derek as much as he possibly can.

  _Because holy shit_ , they’re less than an arm’s length away from each other. He can see every crumple in Derek’s shirt, the grip of his hand along the wheel and the bare patch of neck above his collar. Derek’s too close for his liking, and yes, he thinks his music is good but it’s no wonder he’s got so many fans. He’s stunning, especially now as his glare slowly dissipates from his face.

 When they pull up next to Stiles' house, there’s even a cover of concern over Derek’s features, eyes intent on Stiles’ answer when he asks if he’s alright.

 “I’m fine,” he snaps, and oops, Derek’s scowling again.

 Stiles doesn’t know why he has to be accompanied to his own front door, but Derek does it anyway, following closely behind Stiles so that he swears he can feel the warmth radiating from his torso.

 But he’s still angry, though. Derek has not been the politest of people regardless of Stiles trying to wind him up. Fuck, he just wanted to be noticed by the person he’s been fixated on for god knows how long. It’s not his fault Derek happens to be a rather successful, twenty seven year old music star.

 Stiles tiredly fumbles around in his pocket for his keys and the metal scrapes the side of the lock. He takes too long, and his father has time to answer the door.

 “Here – son? Why do you look like you’ve been punched in the face?” His eyes dart over to Derek and he straightens, eyes raking over him like the scrape of twigs against skin. Derek’s standing close enough beside Stiles that their arms press together and Stiles can feel Derek still when John sticks out his hand. “I’m Sheriff Stilinski,” he says, chin up and professional.

 “Derek Hale,” he replies, taking his hand and giving a firm grip. Thank god his father doesn’t seem to recognise him.

 Stiles rolls his eyes. “Honestly, before you go get your gun, he wasn’t the one to punch me.”

 John doesn’t remove his scrutiny, probably registering the leather jacket and broad shoulders and the age difference and all the things Stiles should find scary except he finds i all attractive. Derek’s gaze does not waver, and Stiles has to give him some credit because his father can be a little intimidating. Silence hangs in the air and despite Stiles’ words of assurance that Derek did not ball up his hand and shove it into Stiles’ face, it must be pretty obvious the mild contempt Stiles has for Derek given how he’s still scowling at him.

 “Why don’t you come in for tea and we can have a little chat?” John says in a hard voice, ready to rip in.

 Derek swallows, waiting in the silence politely. He glances between Stiles and his father, full well knowing that wasn’t a question and wondering how he got himself into this mess.

 “Oh he definitely doesn’t,” mutters Stiles, and he hears Derek scoff under his breath.

 “ _Actually_ , that sounds great, thank you.”

 Stiles chances a look to his side and there’s a faint trace of a displeased smile at Stiles’ words. Derek stands with his hands behind his back, leaning forward politely. Stiles' nostrils flare at the sight of Derek managing to look so damn pleasant all of a sudden. “What?”

 “Come on Stiles, don’t be rude,” his father says dryly, stepping aside and letting the two in. His eyes never leave Derek, and he stays by the frame of the door so that Derek has to pass close by him.

 He heads straight for the bathroom; sure Derek only agreed to get under his skin. Stiles doesn’t care if he leaves Derek alone with his father and the threatening squint of his eyes. He decides to take his time, feels smug as he imagines Derek forced into conversation with the Sheriff.

 The mirror shows an unruly mess and the dried blood has cracked to reveal the scales of a dragon. A face cloth doesn’t seem to cut it when he dabs at his nose and mouth, and in the end he strips down and steps into the shower. The hot water streams around his body, burning his skin in little splatters. Stiles tries to take hold of the situation in his mind, and then the thought that Derek Hale and his father are alone finally has a sane effect and scares him so much that he almost slips as he clambers out of the shower.

 He pins a towel around his waist and when in his room he settles for a dark red shirt and jeans that don’t have specks of blood on the knees. Stiles looks okay, he guesses.

 Downstairs, Derek has a beer in hand – so something must have gone well – and he nods along to the Sheriff’s words. Stiles enters cautiously, but of course, he stumbles and knocks one of the hall photographs to the ground with a loud clang. Two pairs of eyes settle on him. It’s unnerving how similar they both look, staring at him like they should tie him up before he causes more damage.

 “There goes my eavesdropping opportunity,” he says more to himself than anything. His father rolls his eyes and returns to the food he’s preparing on the bench. It’s a fat stab of meat and Stiles gives him a dirty look when he notices, a look which his father seems to evade easily. He resists the urge to glare at Derek because if he wasn’t here then he could rip into his father about healthy eating.

 “How can I help?” asks Derek.

 “Oh, you don’t need to do anything. Stiles will prepare a salad –”

 “Uh, no,” says Stiles firmly, heading over to the fridge and throwing the packet of salad to his father’s chest. “You will prepare the salad and I will prepare the meat. Get rid of all that fat.”

 John looks like he’s about to protest, but Stiles folds his arms and waits out his father's irritation, aware of the curious gaze Derek lays on the two of them. A part of Stiles is sure that Derek was only invited to tea so that Stiles didn’t yell at his father for buying so much meat.

 “You know, only insane people have dinner at this time of day,” says Stiles, aware that Derek’s gaze hasn’t left him since John conceded to doing the greens. He feels as if he’s being stripped, and he still feels flushed from his hot shower. Stiles does not look up from the steel knife in his hand.

 “It’s only six,” says John, and Stiles finally looks up. There is a distinctly amused expression residing on John’s features, like he’s incredibly willing to watch his son embarrass himself. Because the next thing his father says is: “so what did my son do to rope you in, Derek? Since it’s not because of his pleasant manners?” They seem to have passed by the whole punching thing quite well. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did punch him and not that customer.”

 “I did nothing,” Stiles interjects, and the tip of Derek’s lip quirks up. “And he’s certainly not roped in. He just can’t say no to his sister.”

 Derek gives him a sour look before turning to John and taking a sip of his beer. Stiles tries not to watch his throat as he swallows.

 “Oh,” says John with a wicked smile. “So you’re sweet on his sister!”

 Stiles groans, rib cage shrinking to squeeze his lungs. “I’m not sweet on anyone.”

 He sneaks a peek at Derek, hoping there’d be a tiny bit of disappointment over his features. Instead, he’s smiling like he knows Stiles has lied. His lips are still pressed together, and it’s not much, but Derek’s forehead is wrinkled to reveal the pull of attentive eyes. The smile is only there for a second before Derek’s own mind seems to amuse himself and he’s smirking again.

 The dinner doesn’t take too long to get ready, and mostly Stiles remains silent except to protest against a random comment from his father. And random comments from Derek. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to like him yet, as opposed to just being attracted to him.

 Soon, Derek’s going to go back on his white horse to the land of glitz and artistic understanding of the soul. He doesn’t have that kind of leisure. They sit down, and Stiles falls to his seat with a sigh the other two ignore. John and Derek sit opposite each other and Stiles in the middle, trying to monitor both their looks at the same time.

 Derek is pretty unreadable. He answers John’s questions quickly and in a friendly manner, but to Stiles’ comments he seems to take his time to come up with the most annoying piece of shit replies that don’t even answer the question. Stiles stops asking them because he feels like he’s approaching a darn road block.

 “So what do you do for a living, Derek?” asks John. Stiles sticks his chin up and looks at Derek expectantly, wondering if he would lead with lines like _, actually I’ve released two platinum selling albums and I have a hoard of fans who worship my abs._

 “I’m a musician,” he says quietly, avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

 “I don’t suppose that pays very well,” says John and Stiles groans.

 “You’d be surprised,” replies Derek smoothly, taking a swig of his drink.

 “Laura says you’ve started writing again,” says Stiles pointedly, stabbing his meat with his fork and stuffing it into his mouth.

 Derek’s nostrils flare, probably at the realisation his sister has been talking to Stiles outside of his presence. He gets a sharp look and Stiles just chews his food, staring innocently on.

 “Oh,” says John. “What’s gotten you inspired then? Though, I am definitely not an artist and I wouldn’t say I know anything about any sort of musical creative process, so apologies if the question is too personal.”

 Stiles gives his father a look.

 “Not at all,” says Derek clearly, though it’s noticeable when he doesn’t actually answer the Sheriff. Stiles sees Derek’s eyes searching for a lie if they do end up pressing on the matter, but they don’t, and Derek’s shoulders deflate.

 Derek helps clear up without asking. All through this process, John’s eyes are on Stiles and he knows he’s in for an interrogation once Derek leaves. It probably didn’t help coming home with a battered face, which is still quite sore if he touches it.

 His father’s probably noticed the impertinent questions directed at Derek and the polite yet appropriately cutting answers he receives in return. John’s actually entertained, sitting back in his chair and listening to the two of them sparking at each other. It’s as if Derek forgets that his father is sitting right there, and since such a lack of effort has gone into impressing Stiles’ father, Stiles doubts that Derek cares.

 “Would you like to stay for dessert?” John asks because he’s willing to prolong his son’s torture. It seems the coin had flipped while Stiles had been in the bathroom regarding who John wanted to make the most uncomfortable.

 “No thank you, I’d better be going home,” Derek responds.

 “Great!” Stiles pipes up, messily dropping the dishes onto the bench. He wipes his hands on his pants and he sidesteps around the table so that he’s behind Derek. He grips his arms and literally drags him out the door, Derek’s back stiffening and the back of his neck close. Stiles doesn’t remove his hands until they’re both outside in the dimmed light of day, and Derek’s glaring at him and flinching away.

 “You could at least let me say thanks for dinner,” he snaps, somehow leaning over Stiles even though Stiles is pretty sure that he’s taller than him.

 Stiles sneers. “Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at but I swear to god if you go back to ignoring me again or anything like it I don’t know what I will do.”

 “I’m not going to ignore you Stiles,” says Derek dryly, face softening a little.

 Stiles bites his lip, staring at Derek with a sceptical look.

 “Unless you want me to, of course.”

 “Uh, no, that’s okay,” he manages, running a hand through his hair.

 Derek smirks at him, so Stiles shoves him away and off the curb. He scowls. “I bet you only came by the shop because your sister dragged you along to apologise. You’re an ass, just so you know, and if you want to talk to me you’d better make a decision and stick with it. Getting all angry at some stupid customer isn’t going to do shit as far as I’m concerned in making me less angry with you,” he spits.

 His shoulders pinch together. “Fine.”

 Stiles rocks back onto his heels and folds his arms, humming expectantly.

 Derek stares at him. “What.”

 “Does being an international music star put you above apologies then?” asks Stiles.

 “No,” he says, voice petulant as he scuffs his heel into the ground. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

 Derek's gaze shifts to the concrete and Stiles eyes him for a moment. He blinks and Derek’s words aren’t crushed by the weight of the air, aren’t whisked aside like they don’t mean anything. Stiles nods and turns back to his house, letting his silence stretch into a steely line.

 “You like him,” says John when he returns.

 Stiles gives him a dirty look, still miffed at his conversation with Derek. “You only invited him so I wouldn’t stop you eating your artery clogging purchase.”

 “My son had been hurt. Had to give him a piece of my mind.”

 “I told you it wasn’t him.”

 “He would’ve had _something_ to do with it,” John points out.

 Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and stares at the fridge moodily. 

 “You still like him though,” presses his father, his arms folding.

 “He’s a dick,” Stiles insists, heading towards his room.

 His father’s voice calls after him. “You weren’t being much better. It was amusing.”

 “You still didn’t have to invite him for dinner!” Stiles yells back. He tries his best to sound angry, but he’s not sure where this evening has left him. He’s not sure what his opinion of Derek should be, because despite Derek’s hints about leaving him the hell alone, Stiles hadn’t, and well, look where that led.

 His brain is a confused trail of red lights and green and Stiles settles on waiting it out.

*

 Scott’s there the next day when Derek comes in. First his mouth drops open and then he tries to stand there looking angry when Stiles introduces him to Derek. He’s heard all about Stiles’ infatuation with the guy, and it’s only fitting – and endearing – that he’d take on a threatening role.

 Derek turns to Stiles, face flat except for one raised eyebrow before Scott gives Derek a firm handshake. Stiles can see the spark of bravery on his friend’s eyes and Stiles gives a preemptive groan, busily starting to make Derek his coffee.

 “So why were you being a grade A douchebag?” Scott says in a loud voice.

 He sees Derek’s face twist into a slightly angry yet uncomfortable position, and their eyes catch before Derek turns to Scott. “It’s hard to know why people want to talk to me when they don’t just want a signature,” he says slowly.

 “Oh my god,” says Stiles before Scott can open his mouth. “Do you treat everyone like a dick to make sure they’re not hanging around you because you’re a,” he pauses, “celebrity?” Not that that excuses anything, he thinks.

 Scott’s eyes instantly turn sympathetic and he gives Derek’s leathered arm an awkward pat. Derek’s scowl seems to deepen but Scott doesn’t notice and steps around to leave the two of them alone. With a sigh, Derek fishes into his pocket for his wallet and slaps a bill on the table. Stiles withholds his drink for a moment, staring at him with curiosity.

 “I suppose you have to be wary,” he muses.

 “Can we not talk about this,” Derek manages to spit out, knuckles turning white when he grips at the counter.

 “Why not?”

 Derek’s nostril flare out when he sucks in a breath. Stiles has to wait for his lungs to relax before he gets a reply. “Well,” he says. “You know.”

 “Actually I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 Derek is staring at him.

 “Um,” Stiles bites his lip. “Did something like this happen before?”

 He sees a flash of anger behind Derek’s eyes and abruptly he places the coffee on the table. It sloshes a little, and the brown stains the lips of the cup.

 “You don’t know?” Derek manages eventually.

 Stiles shakes his head. “Um.”

 “Okay,” Derek says after a while, voice a little high, nodding to himself. His face is still a little pale, and his fingers stretch out to grab the coffee.

 Stiles hesitates, looking over at Derek’s turning shoulder. He clenches his gut in before opening his mouth. “I only looked you up once, Derek. Which is surprising given my self control. I don’t want to make judgements about you based on what other people think. I don’t want to try and sort out when I talk to you what I should know and what I shouldn’t. I don’t even know if half of what I will find is the truth or not. So, tell me what you want me to know. Or don’t. I don’t mind.”

 Derek’s eyes have flitted over to him, hugging over Stiles till he feels himself blush. He nods, eventually, and turns towards his favourite table.

*

 Stiles was vaguely impressed by Scott until Derek left and he was positively gushing.

 “Don’t fuck this one up, Stiles, that was Derek freaking Hale, so fucking cool, oh my god,” he says, banging on the table top and causing the containers to rattle.

 “Seriously?” Stiles whistles, but his friend ignores him and Stiles tries not to stare too dejectedly at the wall. In his mind he’d quite like to forget that Derek is a celebrity. He’d quite like to not have the most glaringly obvious reason – among many – why he and Derek will never be a thing brought so blatantly to light.

 When he gets home it’s even more tempting to type Derek’s name into the search engine. His fingers lick at the keyboards until finally he swings around on his computer seat and switches the thing off. Downstairs, his father is in front of the television.

 “So, son,” he says without looking up. “When do you think you’ll be seeing that boy of yours again?”

 Stiles scowls at him and his father laughs to himself.

*

 As soon as he sees Derek’s figure at the coffee shop door, leather jacket and all, Stiles is making his double espresso, hands moving quickly over the equipment while keeping his eyes cheerfully on Derek.

 “Late night?” asks Stiles, underneath Derek’s eyes a little dark and his face expressionless.

 “Been writing,” he grunts, the corners of his eyes settling into a frown.

 “You’re allowed to take a break you know,” says Stiles. He realises he is moving too fast to have a half decent exchange of words with Derek, and he wants to hit himself in the face when he’s already setting the cup on the bench.

 With a tired sigh, Derek lazily leans an elbow on the bench to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. Stiles looks away and his fingers begin to tap nervously on his legs.

 “When is _your_ break?” he says pointedly, and he drops a bill on the counter.

 “Well, there’s only me,” Stiles says with a shrug.

 Derek looks behind him and makes a dramatic turn of pointing out that there are no other customers for miles. He returns to face Stiles with a snarky smile, and sleep deprived Derek begins to walk away, his hips moving deliciously.

 When he reaches his favourite table he twists his neck around and raises his eyebrows, moving his head back to take a sip. Stiles' mouth waters when he sees Derek’s throat working, and he wants to be there and press his lips indefinitely to soft skin.

 Stiles scowls and his feet almost trip over each other when four minutes later he slides around the counter’s edge, trying to bite back the guilt of leaving the till unoccupied.

 Derek smirks when Stiles plops down as if he was betting with himself how long it would take for Stiles to come over. He remembers just how wide these tables are when his knees bang against Derek’s, far too aware of the warm pressure there. Stiles slides his seat back, the scrape against the floor deafening to his ears.

 “Glad to see you care about your job,” Derek says, gesturing around them.

 Stiles narrows his eyes. “Want me here or not, smartass? It's nice to see you actually talking to me.”

 Derek rolls his eyes but he doesn’t say anything. Sometimes Stiles thinks the man feels that he’s above speech. They don’t say much for a few minutes, Derek taking sips of his coffee in the surprisingly comfortable silence. Stiles bites his lip and settles back into his chair, folding his arms across his white employee shirt and spreading his knees apart. “So.”

 Derek looks expectant.

 “What are you writing about?”

 “Next question,” Derek replies curtly.

 Stiles scowls. “Do you treat all your interviewers like this?”

 “Normally they are given a list of topics I’m not comfortable speaking about,” he replies smoothly. “And I wasn’t aware that you were interviewing me.”

 Stiles leans forward a little. “Do you blacklist everything? I bet you do.”

 Derek glares at him. “No,” he says, and he sounds like a little kid who has been caught stealing cookies as he shifts around in his seat.

 “Are you always so pleasant in interviews?” asks Stiles. Derek’s narrowed look is unwavering, but to his surprise, Stiles finds that he’s used to it and he meets it with a wide grin. He’s beginning to enjoy himself, and now Stiles is implementing easy silence on Derek, who is twisting his lips in annoyance at being outdone in this field.

 Eventually, Derek cocks his head to the side. “You have a customer.”

 Stiles darts his eyes to the counter, and sure enough there’s a tall lady in a pink coat tapping her foot against the ground. He didn’t hear her come in at all, too lost in actually conversing with Derek.

 “Shit,” he swears, hearing a small bark of laughter. The table rocks as he attempts to leave, shoes sliding on the floor before he’s trying to up his customer service as much as possible so that the lady’s frown disappears.

 When she’s gone with a tut, so is Derek, his figure slipping through the door with a vague wave at Stiles.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone's enjoying the story:)
> 
> And thank God for Laura though, or Derek would really be worse off (because Stiles is right and she dragged him over there to apologise). I know Derek was a dick last chapter and hopefully it's enough for now that there was a little bit as to why addressed here.
> 
> I have a lot of this fic planned even though there are still some things to smooth out. 
> 
> I am [matildajones](http://matildajones.tumblr.com) on tumblr :)


	4. Chapter 4

 He hits a dog. He hits a dog in the middle of the road, in broad daylight. When his feet slam on the breaks his forehead whacks against the steering wheel like the slap of a fish and the horn sounds, long and painful. From outside a whining sneaks in and he groans, trying to get out of the car without stumbling.

 Stiles winces at the damage outside. He drove all the way over it and it happens to be a big, golden, fat Labrador; now with a coat trickled in blood and with a tongue that hangs limply out of its mouth. Stiles swears, hands hovering above the fur like he has the ability to save the poor, heaving creature.

 “Shit, shit, shit,” he hisses, knees bent and trying to figure out what to do. He’s outside the coffee shop, rather late for his shift, and he can feel his face drain of colour when the door opens and more than one person decides to give Stiles a visit.

 Including Derek, it seems. His strides are longer than anyone else’s and Stiles tries to shove him away when the flat of Derek’s palm presses against Stiles’ cheek, gently forcing him to face Derek. His eyes scan across Stiles’ face and Stiles can feel the rough stop of guitar callused fingers. A slight shiver grows on his arms.

 “You’re fine,” Derek says, dropping his hand.

 Stiles glares. “I know. This dog isn’t.”

 There’s a glimmer of an eye roll and Derek focuses on the dog, his lips turning down in a frown. “It's - I'm not sure if it's going to die.”

 “We can call the vet – ”

 “Hopefully they'll be able to do something,” Derek says, as the rest of the group saunter up. “Looks like your jeep needs some help too.”

 Stiles glances up and groans. His baby jeep has a massive dent in the front bumper, the shape of a dog imprinted on it like a ghost. There’s a murmur around him as people come to inspect the damage, and once they realise there’s nothing really wrong except for a vaguely panicking guy they move away easily.

 The dog whines again, and both Derek and he gaze at it with a sigh.

 “I’m going to be so late,” Stiles moans, feeling guilty that he values his job over the Labrador. That's someone's  _dog_. He hopes he hasn't killed it, but he really needs to get to work.

 He can hear Derek smirk. “Go,” he says. “I’ll take care of all this.”

 “What?” Stiles stands. Derek just holds out his hand and demands for Stiles’ keys in a low drawl. He’s so casual about it that Stiles wants to complain, but the clock is ticking and he doesn’t want to get Isaac more pissed off than necessary.

 Stiles is ready to question Derek’s motives, but as soon as his own lips purse in contemplation Derek gives him a forceful glare and Stiles hurriedly throws over the keys. They spin through the air in a smooth motion and Stiles rushes to get his bag from the jeep before sprinting off to the coffee shop.

 “Take the car to the mechanic two streets down, you know the one? They should recognise my jeep and have my details stored, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Stiles calls behind him; pleased that Derek’s taking care of this.

 His chest feels light and Isaac’s death glare when he bursts into the shop makes him apologise but doesn’t draw his mood down completely.

*

 Ten minutes before the end of his shift he’s slowly wiping down tables and it hits him that he has no way home but his own two feet. He doesn’t have his jeep and even if he did he doesn’t have his keys either. Stiles’ spirits sink because Derek hasn’t returned, and he thinks that the keys are probably going to get deposited in a crisp envelope in his letter box rather than returned to him in person.

 Outside, he swings his bag over his shoulder and his eyes fall on the unfortunate place of the accident with the dog. Stiles sighs and begins the trek home, deliberating on whether he should stop by the mechanic. He wonders what they had been thinking if they had recognised Derek for being the mega music star that he is. In what universe does someone with that much money turn up to a mechanic with such a shitty jeep, let alone Stiles’ jeep?

 Stiles scowls at the air.

 He’s not sure how long he’s walked when the same sleek, black car pulls up beside him. Stiles stills when he sees it, the window rolling down to reveal Derek leaning over the passenger seat. “Get in,” he sighs, before the glint of sunlight over the rising glass makes it impossible for Stiles to see Derek’s face anymore.

 Stiles lets out an internalised grunt and dashes to the car door, swinging it open and settling on the seat with a small grin on his face. “God, my feet are killing me,” he moans, wiggling his toes inside his shoes. He glances over at Derek who has his eyes on the road.

 “Did the dog die?” Stiles asks in a low voice.

 “No,” he says, making a smooth turn on the road. "And they think they will be able to contact the owner."

 “Did you have to pay for anything?” he states, relief moving through him. He keeps his eyes on Derek. He’s going to use the excuse of communication to justify his staring at Derek’s jaw line. At this angle his eyelashes look even more prominent, and he can see Derek curl his lips, aware of Stiles’ scrutiny.

 “No,” Derek replies. “I didn’t have to pay and your jeep is going to take a few days to fix. There’s not much wrong with it but they have quite a back up of cars already.”

 Stiles groans in his seat, swearing under his breath. “Couldn’t you have just, paid them off or something? Put me ahead of the queue?”

 Derek shoots him a dirty look, and Stiles knows that he’s not going to spend a lick of his money on him. Time, maybe, but nothing more.

 “Well then how am I supposed to get to work every day? Or back again?” he whines, throwing his hands around.

 “If it’s so much of a bother I could do what I’m doing now,” says Derek in a flat voice. The air goes appropriately quiet, they’re almost at Stiles’ house and he tries to hide the brink of incredulousness swimming through his system.

 “Dude, you are so not getting out of that,” Stiles warns.

 Derek says nothing, staring at the road a little wary of his offer. Stiles bites the hesitation away with a grin and nods a thank you, it settling in the air without any words. “I start tomorrow’s shift at ten.”

 The car pulls over and Derek stops his fixation of the road and angles the edge of his jaw towards Stiles. Their eyes meet and Derek’s expression seems strained as he swallows, like he doesn’t know what he’s reaching for.

 Stiles ignores it and flops out of the car, waving over his shoulder.

*

 There’s a slight jitter in his system the next morning and he peers out beyond the curtains more often than necessary. The wave of relaxation is short lived when Stiles finally hears the quiet rumble of Derek’s car, and he leaves and locks the door before he thinks Derek can change his mind.

 As he sits on the leather seats he huffs out a little breath and gives a brisk greeting, eager to get the car moving. He’s not sure how this is going to play out; then again, he’s never sure with Derek.

 “Morning,” Derek says back, a little amused.

 The ride is comfortably silent except for the occasional yawn from Stiles, the air too crisp to make him feel like he can get away with peeking at Derek. The clouds are grey and dip around them, and after listening to the wheels crunch at the road, Derek switches on the radio to be greeted by the half way point of his own song.

 Stiles begins to laugh, batting away Derek’s hands when he tries to change the station.

 “Stop it, Stiles,” barks Derek, and in contrast his soft voice licks at Stiles’ ears through the speakers.

 “No!” He tries not to think about the friction between their hands as they both battle for control of the player. Derek’s flesh is soft, and he’s grumbling while he tries to keep his eyes on the road.

 “Why?”

 “I like this one,” says Stiles cheekily, trying not to thread his fingers between Derek’s too obviously while he attempts to pull Derek’s hand away. The two of them are acting like children, Stiles delighting in making Derek squirm as his song approaches the bridge, both their hands fluttering against each other like the wings of a butterfly. Eventually their movements press in harder, and it’s somewhat ambiguous as to why their hands are continuing to battle.

 “So do a lot of people,” snaps Derek, his other hand jerking at the wheel to go around the corner.

 Stiles laughs. “That’s very modest of you. Who are you sassing in this one?”

 “Just – ugh someone, Stiles, okay?” Derek’s tone is dark and Stiles snatches away his hand, all playfulness suddenly absent. “I don’t want to listen to it.”

 “Why do you release songs you can’t bear hearing? When you’ll eventually have to play them in front of lots of people?” asks Stiles in a flat voice, switching off the radio so that silence sits in again.

 Derek’s lips press together in such a firm line it’s like he’s trying to bend steel. They pull into the lot, and with a sigh he turns his whole body to face Stiles. “It’s not who you think it’s about. This one is about my manager, Peter,” he says in a hard voice before he smirks. “But he doesn’t know that.”

 Stiles snorts. “What do you mean who I think it’s about?”

 “That person you hinted at. It’s not about them; I haven’t released any of those songs. They’re shit. I sort of gave up writing after that,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

 “So, they weren’t worth your talent? What’s so bad about that?”

 Derek looks up at him incredulously and Stiles changes the subject, unaware that with that sentence he put months of uncertainty under a new light. Months of Derek questioning what he was really good for, if he should have a guitar in hand, if he could get away with only fixing songs he wrote years ago since anything new that came barely had any substance.

 “You still picking me up later?”

 “Yeah.”

 “You going to come in for coffee today?”

 Derek nods. “Maybe towards the end of your shift.”

 The door opens and Stiles swings his legs out of the car before bringing them back in again. “Will you play for me one day?” he blurts out.

 Derek pulls back his body in surprise, brain already scattered, watching a slow blush creep onto Stiles. “Um.”

 “You don’t have to,” Stiles replies quickly.

 “It’s kind of inevitable if you hang out with me outside cars and coffee shops,” Derek says awkwardly.

 Stiles tilts his head to the side and gives him a strange look. “Okay, so, bring your guitar or a freaking grand piano or something when you come pick me up and you can hang out at my house after you drop me off?” he suggests with a sudden grin.

 Derek swallows and gives a sharp nod.

 Stiles' eyes widen. “Cool. You can sing too.”

 Before there are any objections, Stiles steps out of the car, the firm shut of the door jolting Derek back into the space around him. Stiles smiles to himself, a little worked up by his own courage. The first customer he receives is welcomed with a large smile that probably wouldn’t have been there otherwise.

*

 “I just want to say,” says Derek, sitting on the couch arm, guitar on his thigh, pick hanging off the edge of his mouth like it’s in peril. “I don’t write all my songs about other people.”

 Stiles nods, arms folded as he waits for the coming spectacle. “I know.”

 “And I write about concepts. And myself,” he states, watching Stiles carefully.

 “Derek, I did listen to your albums,” Stiles points out.

 He looks to the wall in return, like he’s questioning his sanity by being here. It’s alarming how often that expression pops up, but Stiles puts it more down to irritation than anything else. Since he has read some of Derek’s lyrics, and it’s understandable given his career, maybe it’s more a question of trust. _Why would I trust an idiot who thinks he’s got a chance with an international singer?_ At least, Stiles hopes he isn’t thinking that when it comes to Derek’s sceptical look.

 “Fine,” says Derek curtly. “Also, I should say that I don’t mind playing my songs, it’s just...uncomfortable listening to something I can’t fix.”

 “Oh, get a grip,” Stiles says, sinking into one of the couches. He gets a glare. “Nothing’s perfect. Just play already.”

 But Stiles is wrong. Because the way Derek’s hand travels over the instrument is like the whole world could give away and Stiles wouldn’t notice. It is perfect; the way oxygen is a soothing remedy for breathlessness, perfect in the way water slides over burns or perfect in how much comfort an embrace can offer.

 A twinge of suspicion makes him think that Derek might be showing off a little and a smug curl sits inside Stiles because maybe he’s worth showing off for. When Derek finishes he clears his throat, and Stiles looks him in the eye. “What was that one?”

 “Something in the works.”

 “You didn’t sing,” says Stiles playfully.

 “Lyrics don’t come as easily to me, sometimes they do, but this song doesn’t have any I want to share yet,” Derek ignores Stiles frown.

 “Want to stay for dinner?”

 “Did you like it?” Derek directs his gaze at Stiles, intent on getting an answer.

 “Will you stay for dinner if I say yes?”

 “I’ll go,” warns Derek, sliding the light wood of the acoustic off his knee and starting to stand.

 “Fine, it was good,” admits Stiles, lurching his body forward a little just in case Derek’s threat had some weight behind it.

 Derek places his guitar next to him and folds his arms. The cracks in Stiles’ self control give way to a crumble and Stiles sighs in defeat.

 “Okay, it was really good. I liked it a lot.”

 “Then I’ll stay for dinner and if you’re cooking then I’ll say it’s really good too.”

 Stiles throws a cushion at him.

*

 It seems like an accident the way Derek stays over after every shift. When his mechanic calls to say his jeep is going to take a bit longer than planned, Stiles tries his best not to sound too excited and Derek doesn’t seem to mind when he’s told the problem.

 Sometimes, Stiles has the early morning shift and Derek is a little bleary eyed but doesn’t complain. He goes for a run afterwards and when he comes to the store to order his coffee his hair is slightly damp from his shower. Derek sits, as always, with his book until Stiles drags his fingers across Derek’s shoulder to tell him the day’s work is over.

 If he has the afternoon shift and his father is in for dinner, sometimes the three of them will sit around the wooden table easily. The atmosphere is less sharp than what it once was, passing glances sometimes turning into lingering looks an illusion Stiles wants as truth. John eyes Stiles a good portion of the meal, probably wondering where all this is going. There are hints of _something_ trailing in the air that no one at the table can define.

 If Stiles is closing up the store, Derek doesn’t stay. He doesn’t mind because he can’t keep Derek away from his family forever, no matter how much he wants to.

 “You don’t seem too busy for someone so apparently famous,” says Stiles one afternoon, sprawled out on the couch while they watch tv.

 “Peter doesn’t care at the moment as long as I’m writing, and since being here with my family seems to help he doesn’t object to it,” Derek says quickly. His hand curls over his thigh as the words escape his mouth.

 “Okay,” Stiles says back.

*

 Stiles is curled up in the corner of one of his living room sofas. Derek is on the other side, guitar propped on his leg and playing at the strings gently. He doesn’t always have the guitar but it’s more often than not that he pulls it out of his boot and lets music slide over their ears.

 Seated in front of the tv, at first, Stiles tells him to shut it. His favourite scene flickers on the television, Derek knows Stiles wanted to show him this movie, and the lightly plucked notes don’t tend to go well with the sounds from the speakers.

 Out of the corner of his eye Stiles sees Derek’s fingertips twitch, running down the neck of the guitar. His lips are moving over each other very slightly like the breath of wind. Derek’s humming to himself, occasionally picking up a pen and jotting something down on a cream notepad that is carefully angled away from Stiles. It’s too much, watching him sit there like Stiles has deprived him of something.

 Eventually, Stiles scowls and snatches the remote from the coffee table, fingernails scraping against the wood. He turns on the subtitles and throws the remote onto the couch next to him, the plastic bouncing against the cushions.

 Stiles stares determinedly at the glowing screen, ignoring Derek’s look of surprise. His whole body seems to still as he feels a pair of eyes on him. Within a moment, Derek twists his wrist and the guitar makes its way back over his leg. Stiles tries not to be jealous of an instrument.

 “Thanks,” says Derek quietly when he’s leaving, guitar in case and slung over his back.

 Stiles’ hand rests on the edge of the door and he cranes his neck to the side. “Sure,” he replies.

*

“That, that sounds like...” Stiles says distractedly, ears turning pink when he looks at Derek. He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the unspoken words are still plucked from his throat because the both of them know what he was about to say.

 Derek’s dark eyes are on him, jaw clenched when Stiles had the stupidity to open his mouth. But the notes have been languid and smooth, occasionally dipping into something slightly uncertain, but riveting, before edging out. Derek’s hands kiss at the electric guitar, his wrist twisting as he strums and the tempo increases to something more frantic. At times it seems a little too different and strained, before what would translate to a sudden dip of pleasure plays out on the guitar. The next notes melt every fray together, like every discordant sound was meant to be there to begin with.

 Derek just stares as he strums harder, the strings almost whining, and Stiles is staring at him, trying hard not to swallow. His eyes don’t wander to the instrument at all; they stay on Stiles’ face, features unchanging until he closes his eyes briefly in concentration.

 Stiles’ heart begins to thud and suddenly Derek lets go of his guitar, it staying on his hip, and the last notes vibrate out into the musky air and run along Stiles’ spine. He sees the rise and fall of Derek’s chest, because to play like that, it takes effort.

 Stiles' hands grip around his mug. After a moment, when the last of the notes stop ringing and he can hear only breathing, Derek’s fingers gently pick at the strings like he’s piecing everything back together in an easy haze, eyes open again, till the notes feel finished and smooth once more.

 “I know what it sounds like,” Derek says finally, easily, and shamelessly turns back to the television Stiles didn’t know he muted. He quickly leans over to the remote and presses a button and chatter fills the room.

 Stiles can feel the heat in his cheeks, unaware of anything past his own mind. In half an hour Stiles has not spoken once, silence hangs, and Derek is probably expecting Stiles' normal movie commentary to resume. Derek decides to leave and Stiles murmurs a goodbye, not walking Derek to the door like he normally does. He thinks he’s imagining things when Derek frowns a little in disappointment.

 “Did you come up with that?” he hears himself saying. Derek pauses at the doorframe.

 “Yes.”

 “Now?”

 Derek’s shoulder blades slide around as he turns. “Yes.”

 “Will you remember it?”

 “Yes,” he says, eyes boring into him. Stiles wants to ask what he was thinking about while he played, just to ease his thoughts. A strange unfamiliarity and tension rides through the air, and he dares himself to wonder if his attraction is reciprocated. The stare holds out like lungs deprived of oxygen, burning until a wash of air temporarily soothes the scrape of pain. The air doesn’t come, Stiles remains silent, and his heart thuds.

 Derek leaves.

 Fuck, Stiles knows nothing about music except what he likes and wants to listen to. He never knew music could be so affecting and he never understood just how talented Derek is.

*

 “I’m going back to school next week,” Stiles tries to say casually, a drink in either hand.

 Derek looks up from the couch, the string of the guitar playing something off balanced and strange. “Oh.”

 Awkwardly, Stiles lowers himself onto his usual seat and noisily places the two beer bottles on the table. He slides one bottle towards Derek and chances a few glances at him. He’s not discreet, he knows he’s not discreet, yet he pretends to be.

 “Yeah, I’ll be away from here,” he says. “Where will you be?”

 “All over the place,” Derek replies. “Touring. It will be our second leg. Laura’s coming with me this time.”

 Stiles' face breaks out into a smile. “That will be good, and hopefully Laura will keep you sane.”

 “Or drive me insane,” mutters Derek, and Stiles laughs, forgetting why in the kitchen he felt like his spine was cracking in two. For a moment he forgets about how he and Derek barely talk as much as Stiles would like, yet they’re with each other all the time. He tries not to think about how unsolved Derek’s mind is to Stiles, only grasping now how music is Derek’s preferred language, how it eases him, complements him.

 He doesn’t want to remember how he’s going to be gone. The quiet life of Beacon Hills cannot last forever. Stiles knows that, he does, yet the pit of his stomach strains for more time where he can learn how to read Derek or see the way he lets his guard melt as he does with a guitar.

 But school is going to happen, and fuck, Derek’s going to be touring. He’s not going to have time for Stiles even though he’s been coming over almost every day even after the jeep got fixed. So for a moment he chats easily about the classes he’s looking forward to taking, the teachers he’s got to watch out for, and then he rounds back to the fact his father is insisting on taking him and Scott to the airport even though he doesn’t have the time.

 “But yeah, I’ll be going.”

 Derek has been looking attentively at Stiles, forearm dangling over his guitar but not playing anything. His skin and hands look satisfyingly delightful casually strung over the instrument, but Stiles can’t admire it when his heart is freaking out that this will all be over.

 Derek rolls his eyes and stuffs his hand in his pocket, tilting his hips upward to get his mobile out of his tight, tight jeans. “Here,” he says, unlocking the phone and shoving it at Stiles. He almost drops it. Somehow they haven’t needed to communicate via text, a few words at the coffee shop enough to organise the details of their car rides.

 “Put in your damn number already.” Derek growls slightly when Stiles doesn’t do anything.

 “Uh, right, yeah,” Stiles mumbles. The plastic burns hot against his skin, warm from being pressed against Derek’s thigh. As soon as he puts the number in, he chucks the phone back at Derek’s smirking face. Stiles bites his lip when he realises he should’ve texted himself so that at least he could bother Derek of his own accord.

 Derek quirks a small smile at Stiles when he leaves.

*

 Back at school, a cautious smile of hope rests on Stiles' face for the better part of a week, and when people ask him how his summer went he responds with an enthusiastic nod and not much else. They don’t press for information because these questions are normally said in passing, but Scott’s encouraging slap on the shoulder is enough to make him smile whenever any of Derek’s songs come on or if someone mentions him.

 Normally they mention how good looking he is. Normally they mention how much they want to fuck him. Jealously sidles up his spine, but he does his best to ignore it. Derek is not his, Derek just has his number, even if he hasn’t texted yet.

 It gets to the point where hope is gone but he’s not hurt yet. But that stage doesn’t last long because it’s almost been three weeks and he has classes and he can’t afford to stare at his phone too often while trying to be understanding. Stiles locks up his feelings as long as he can, before he starts to get angry at Derek throwing him under the fucking bus again. Because it doesn’t take much, no matter how famous you are, to just text hi.

 He’s now fully aware he’s not wanted. But it’s extremely hard to forget about him when he’s mentioned every two seconds, especially when his new project partner tells him she runs a Derek Hale blog and is happy to drive three hours to go to his concert in a fortnight.

 She asks if he’s a fan and he snorts. Not right now, he isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the thing with the dog actually happened to someone in my family so there's where that came from. :(  
> Sorry about the ending of this chapter there, but it was awkward to put it at the beginning of the next chapter so there it had to go! 
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying the story, and thank you to any of you who have commented.
> 
> I am [matildajones](http://matildajones.tumblr.com) on tumblr :)


	5. Chapter 5

_Stiles. It’s Derek._

 His eyes are bleary as he peers at the screen, the curve of an unfamiliar string of numbers glowing in the darkness of his dorm room. Stiles groans and snatches at the phone, not really certain of anything at this point. He can feel his heart fucking dropping and swooping around like he might lose it if he’s not careful. His fingers fumble against the screen and before he knows it a soft ringing sound fills his ears.

 “Stiles?” comes the voice, uncertain.

 “Good, it fucking is you, you prick. Took you long enough and you woke me up,” he snaps, cutting the call and stuffing his face back into his pillow. Scott’s soft snores fill the air around him.

  _Sorry._ The phone buzzes by his head, and sleep teases him, flirts with him, but of course fucking Derek Hale wins and Stiles reads the text.

  _What for?_

He’s almost submitted to slumber when the phone finally goes off. _Not sorry for waking you up._ Two seconds later another text comes. _Sorry for not being in touch._

_Are these pity drunken texts?_

_No. Laura bugged me to contact you._

_Right._ Stiles’ nostrils flare in the dark and he curses loud enough to wake Scott up momentarily. Stiles switches off his phone and chucks it somewhere on his floor among the books and the clothes. He’ll deal with Derek later, if he wants to even deal with him at all.

 The texts come all through the day and slowly a working picture forms in Stiles’ mind of Derek’s thoughts. Each new vibrate sends a jitter through his heart, and he’s sufficiently disappointed when it happens to be someone else.

  _You don’t have to talk to me._

 “Good,” Stiles mutters to himself, “I’m not going to.” His phone is heavy in his pocket, aware of all of its dimensions, the copper and gold and everything that makes it possible to communicate with someone you’re not around.

 That afternoon the loud sound of Stiles' phone interrupts the silence. Scott looks at Stiles expectantly, telling him that his phone went off while Stiles stares stubbornly into the distance, nostrils flared. Scott rolls over on the grass, snatches it from him and attempts to read it aloud to the open air and to all their friends’ ears. Stiles is not above tackling him for it back, and in the end Scott is too worried about pissing his friend off to give much of a fight, but smirks when Stiles opens the message.

_I just wanted to see if I could write without you there._

 His eyes flit over his screen and his nails claw at the spokes of grass beside him. Stiles wants to whine despite his friends being around him and he wants to punch Derek in the face for admitting something like that, for admitting that there’s something about Stiles that acts like a door for his expression. It’s clear that whatever’s going on between them has some weight, it must, but he’s mad at Derek for pulling at his feelings like they don’t matter, for thinking silence, again, is the best way to do things.

 _And I can,_ Derek replies when Stiles is studying, the light low outside. _But you’re still there._

 Stiles stares at his phone, desperately wanting to talk to him the way he’s been craving.

  _I’m not a fucking experiment._

*

 The sound of the phone ringing a couple of days later is muffled by his hoodie and the laughing stock of students making their way to the dorm in front of him. He and Scott are planning pizza and a movie because one of the professors is a dick, and Stiles is willing to wish the problem away with a damn good lot of food.

 Scott pauses at the building doors, smiling patiently as he waits for Stiles to answer.

 “It’s Derek!” he hisses at his friend, holding his hand out like it’s burning. Scott’s eyes widen.

 “You have his number?” he mouths, even though no one is around. They both seem to slip into a wordless conversation of big hand movements and gaping eyes, their actions coupled with the feeling that each vein in Stiles' head might explode.

 The phone stops ringing and the two stare at it.

 “Should you ring back?” asks Scott, unsure. He places a supportive hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

 “He’s been a bit of a dick,” admits Stiles.

 He chooses to stuff it in his pocket when Scott frowns. Immediately it starts to play up again, and now that he missed the last call there’s no hesitation this time in answering it; not wanting to go through that debacle again.

 Stiles can almost feel Derek rolling his eyes when he says hello, his voice raised in question.

 “Good, you answered. That’s better than doing a manic dance at the phone,” he says dryly. Stiles pulls his chin towards his neck and scoffs.

 “I wasn’t doing a _dance_ ,” he snaps at the same time his brain spits into action. Stiles drops the bag hanging off his shoulder and whirls around and away from Scott’s drop jawed gape.

 “Can you see me?” asks Derek quietly, voice rough against Stiles’ ear. His eyes search for Derek until finally, at the end of the road he spots a dark car accompanied by a faint silhouette of shoulders and an arm raised by an ear. It’s unmistakably Derek, and Stiles can make out his leather jacket from where splashes of light bounce off it.

 “You look real creepy, dude,” Stiles says. He hears Derek sigh through the phone.

 “Just come over.”

 Stiles turns back to Scott who gives him a massive shrug. He opens the door to their building, and with Scott walking away and the door gently pressing against the air as it closes, Stiles inwardly sighs in defeat. Picking up his bag, he turns towards Derek and begins to stride forward. When Derek sees him pacing, the phone line is cut off and Derek fluidly dips into his car.

 He’s not gentle when he opens the car door, plops himself down on the passenger seat and shifts pointedly to make himself comfortable. Stiles spreads his arm over the edge of the door  and finally he sticks his chin out at Derek, expectant.

 “I had a show,” Derek explains first.

 “Three hours away,” points out Stiles, and he just shrugs when he receives a questioning look. “And?”

 Derek doesn’t respond.

 “How long were you waiting out there?” Because he can be judgmental right now even though he practically stalked the coffee shop that first break, when he didn’t even know Derek.

 “Forty minutes,” Derek replies, brushing it aside easily because it’s not the point. He gives a sideways look at Stiles, eyes flitting downwards for a second. “I don’t think you’re an experiment.”

 Stiles chews the inside of his cheek, unwilling to trust himself to speak. He feels his blood flush at his skin, anger flicking through each pulse of his veins. “You still treat me like one.”

 Derek’s hands come up in a swift motion, a noise of frustration escaping his throat. They come down hard on the steering wheel, gripping the casing tight while he stares ahead. There’s nothing to see, it’s too dark without headlights and Stiles can see Derek's lips disappearing as he tries to form words in his head.

 He lets go of the wheel, sinking back into his chair like he can’t escape himself.

 “Stiles, you fucking scare me. The idea of you fucking scares me,” his words scrape out of him. “I don’t want to have to depend on anyone for my writing otherwise I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. And it’s not like I even write about you the whole time, I can just write. Maybe it’s because you’re not expecting me to be anyone other than the person you’ve met. I don’t know.”

 Both share a stunned expression when they realise how much Derek has said. He puts his hands back on the wheel like he’s going to drive anywhere, just to get out of here and away from this terrible situation. God, Stiles doesn’t even feel angry anymore, he’s just got confusion lacing through him along with a small tinge of sadness because he didn’t want to be this.

 “Am I just that though?” he says quietly. “A way to get work done? Maybe someone you thought about fucking once and that’s it?”

 Derek shifts in his seat and doesn’t deny it. He looks up. “I don’t know.”

 “Then don’t. Just don’t,” Stiles manages, voice broken. He reaches for the door handle, but there’s the gentle press of Derek’s hand against his arm.

 “Stiles,” he says. That’s all he says.

 Stiles laughs to himself, shaking off Derek’s hand. He turns to face Derek, one of his knees climbing up on the seat. The streaked wash of car headlights move over his face and flash in his eyes. “Can I get an autograph?”

 “What?” Derek’s face scrunched up like Stiles has gone mental.

 He rolls his eyes. “It’s for a friend. Her name is Kira. She went to your show which according to her is three hours away. Write something nice.”

 Derek clenches his teeth together and he lets out a little air, it sounding like a low hiss. Stiles gets glared at, but he’s used to it, and it’s better like this than how pathetic he had been sounding before. But the way Derek wriggles behind the wheel to find a pen in his pocket almost kills Stiles, his shirt slipping up to reveal Derek’s hips and Stiles wants to run his tongue along and over.

 Somehow, Derek has got a marker in his hand and he reaches over Stiles to open the glove box. Stiles bites his lip and looks down, the hint of stubble not far away. He tries to breathe properly, not speaking in case his will chokes and his need to ravish Derek takes over, even though the man's been an asshole.

 Inside the glove box are four identical CDs and Derek yanks one of them out before straightening.

 “I’m always nice to the fans,” he grumbles into the silence, sliding the inside cover out of the plastic. One of the sheets folds out into a poster; it’s mostly white but with Derek’s body and face etched in as a shadow. It’s taken side on, a microphone resting in his hand and for some reason there’s no shirt, only his bare biceps, the muscles across his back, his tattoo, and then thick eyelashes, each one dark and obvious against the blaringly white background.

 Stiles snorts. “Really?”

 “This was the least offending one,” Derek mutters darkly.

 Stiles lets his eyes roam suggestively over Derek like he wants to peel off his top and make sure whatever that picture depicted was accurate. Derek jerks his head at Stiles like he knows what he’s thinking, and Stiles snaps his eyes up from the waistband of Derek’s jeans. He brings himself to smirk. He knows how to act like this; he knows how to pretend their last conversation didn’t happen.

 Derek’s eyes are dark, not paying attention to the paper he’s now folding back up.

 “You going to tell her how you got this?” he mutters.

 Stiles shrugs. “Write her name on the disc. I’m going to need a picture so she’ll believe it’s from you.”

 He scowls but obliges, and Derek offers a momentarily blinding smile, his white teeth contrasting against the grey shadows of the car.

 Stiles drops the phone into his lap. “Why are you here, Derek?”

 In an instant Derek leans forward, clutching at Stiles’ shirt. He sucks a breath in surprise, and Derek hovers inches from his face, eyeing him up and down, making his intentions clear without any words. His hand presses flat against Stiles' chest before Derek’s thumb slowly moves up to the base of his throat.

 It feels like he’s on fire and they haven’t done anything. Stiles' whole body becomes rigid, urging to become like the languid mess of wax underneath a sharp flame. He feels Derek’s hot breath over his cheek, then there’s a brush of stubble against his skin and slowly Derek draws his mouth closer. Both their lips dangle in front of each other, inching so near that there’s an occasional graze of skin.

 It’s all he can take not to at least dart out and wet his lips just as Derek comes closer.

 “I want to try with you,” he breathes, hot and heavy.

“First,” Stiles says in a rasp, so close to him, so close. He tugs on Derek’s jacket, neck stretching slightly as he tilts his chin up, away from Derek’s lips. “First, you’ve got to text me. You’ve got to want to talk to me and want more than just this.”

 There’s a pause, and after a moment Derek nods, his fingers curling a little against Stiles’ chest. Painfully, and like each second has been stretched out; Derek leans away. He gives a curious smile towards Stiles and nods yet again.

 Stiles lets go of his breath as gradually as he can muster. “Good,” he says. “Good. I probably have to go now.” He darts forward and grabs the CD from where it lay discarded against the gearstick.

 Outside the car where the chilly air meets him, he pauses to recollect himself. Then he keeps on moving.

*

 He gives Kira the CD the next day, dropping it on top of her books and spreading his things out opposite her on the table when she squeaks in surprise. She shoots Stiles a questioning look before tentatively reaching for the disc and turning it over. When she sees her name in unfamiliar writing and the initials DH she drops it again, and Stiles sighs at her.

 “Just open it and look at the poster, and then we can study,” he says in a bored voice, a little part of him itching to know what Derek had written. It’s only now the want to look at the message has arisen.

 “Oh my gosh, Stiles! How did you get this!” she squeals happily after she’s opened the poster. Then she drops it and gives Stiles a sceptical look.

 He had printed out the photo he took earlier since he figured Kira would want a copy and he didn’t want it to be obvious that the photo had been taken on his own phone’s camera. He slides a hand in his pocket and almost throws it at her. It floats gently down and she gives him a reprimanding look for not being sufficiently careful enough.

 “Oh my gosh!” she says again. “Thank you! And how?”

 Kira’s eyes are much more forceful than Stiles ever gave her credit for because Stiles hopes she’d forget about that tiny detail, but no, she wants an answer.

 “My friend Lydia ran into him, she’s doing an internship in LA. She’s not exactly a fan but I mentioned in passing that you were,” he lies easily, waving his hand. It’s dark enough in the car that the photograph looks like it could be taken anywhere.

 “That’s really lovely of you, Stiles, but you know that I’m kind of interested in someone else,” she says gently, ears going pink.

 He rolls his eyes. “Just let me see what that star of yours wrote.”

  _Kira, thank you for your support. Next time, we should meet in person. Derek Hale._

*

  _Hi,_ he receives. A few moments later: _Did your friend get the autograph?_

 Stiles can’t quite believe that there are attempts of actual communication. He tries all sorts of replies in his head, some of them leaving with the force of a gale because only drunk Stiles would write that. _She did,_ he replies carefully. _She keeps me informed of all your shenanigans._

_I don’t like that word._

 Stiles smirks. _I thought you wouldn’t._

_I think it would be slightly more accurate if the story of what I do each day comes from me._

 He breaks into a large smile. _Then by all means start talking._

 They do, and it’s really easy, like fingertips lightly skimming the edge of water. Somehow through bits and pieces Stiles is aware of each show Derek has, or when his sound checks are and who his backup singers are. Erica and Boyd are their names.

*

He finds himself texting Derek just so he can text him. Hell is paved with college deadlines and he feels like a fucking zombie. _Holy fuck I’m tired._

  _Get some sleep then._

_Sorry eyes are too blurry to read your text. I’m going to sleep._

 Derek doesn’t reply. Sometimes he doesn’t for a long time.

*

 Late at night Derek calls from a hotel room, Stiles imagining the thick darkness around him as he talks lazily to Stiles, letting him speak about school or Scott. Stiles licks his lips whenever he hears Derek adjust himself on the bed, the mattress squeaking a little and the sheets brushing tightly over each other. Stiles sighs, wishing for Derek’s company and quite accidentally they start listening to each other breathe. Derek interrupts with a tentative call of his name.

 “You still there?” he asks.

 Stiles knows that he can hear him amidst the stillness. He lets out a heavy breath. “Of course I am. Are you still there?”

 Derek snorts.

 “Alright, fine,” says Stiles grumpily. “Well, I have to go and study, so stop distracting me and go write a song or something.”

 “I do more than write songs, you know.”

 “Yeah, okay, go workout then,” Stiles says with a grin on his face. “Got to keep the fans happy!”

 Derek gives a short laugh, seemingly always so fond when the fans are mentioned. “What about you?” he asks playfully, and Stiles shoots up his eyebrows because he sounds like the gentle purr of a kitten.

 “I’m frankly miserable by the way you look,” he mumbles.

*

 Derek has sent a short clip, taken by a blonde whose voice is lost with the chant of the crowd. She pokes the camera towards her face, introducing the scene before a tilted dash of the camera flits across a darkened room with hurried dots of flashing lights. Stiles sees the faint outlines of bobbing heads and reaching arms, but the frazzled groan his phone makes when the high pitched _Derek, Derek, Derek, Derek!_ rockets through the speakers makes Stiles lurch the phone away from him.

  _You wanted to know what being on stage was like_ are Derek’s accompanying words.

  _They’re screaming your name_ he replies; slightly miffed about how that’s how Derek chose to explain the experience of performing in front of a crowd. He was expecting a short monologue about sharing music with others. But no, he got a slightly narcissistic video clip instead, of _strangers_ calling Derek’s name and he kind of wishes he were a part of that crowd.

_Is this a hint?_

_Do you want me to scream your name too?_

_I can but you’re going to have to work for it,_ he sends, biting his lip.

*

 “I want to see you,” Stiles sighs a warm breath into the phone, too quiet, and then there’s too much of a wait before Derek responds, too much, and pin pricks of worry start to form over Stiles’ skin.

“Yeah,” he says back. “Me too. Despite the fact that you sent suggestive texts for Laura to read.”

 “Hey!” complains Stiles with a relieved smile. “That’s your own fault.” He’s glad the moment has passed and he can will away the embarrassment of admitting something so honestly. Then another fear comes over him and his next words slip out without him really noticing. “Do you ever worry that I don’t understand music the way you do?”

 “No, because you get it enough to not question the way I understand it, or to find it strange,” he says firmly.

 “I guess,” Stiles replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am all for all possibilities for a great friendship between Kira and Derek on the show, so given the circumstances of this fic I've got her as a fan of Derek, since how else will they have actually met?
> 
> And I like Stiles here, expecting more from Derek.
> 
> Hope you're all enjoying the story! Here's my [tumblr!](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

 Four sit in front of the television, bits of torn wrapping paper scattered over the floor so that reds, whites and greens cover the carpet completely. Scott and his mother have joined the Stilinski household for Christmas and at the news Scott had fist pumped the air, managing to hit the corner of a bookshelf. Stiles laughed at his friend’s excitement as Scott proceeded to cradle his knuckles in pain.

 The end credits roll and for some reason they’re watching _Love Actually_ , the soft sound of satisfactory end music filling the air. Their tummies are full, but Scott still reaches for another chocolate. “Dude, is Derek in Beacon Hills for Christmas or not?”

 John hears him and raises his eyes over the edge of a magazine he’s reading before settling down again. Stiles can almost see his ears stretching outwards to listen at full capacity.

“He said he might be. Had some Christmas Eve thing to go to somewhere,” he says a little forlornly. He was hoping that family might draw Derek to Beacon Hills and that since he’d be here too, they would see each other. Perhaps he shouldn’t have wished for it so much or dropped so many hints to Derek about seeing him again.

 “That sounds stupid,” Scott says loyally, and Stiles just shrugs. “I know you’ve got questions for him. Lydia says so too.”

 Stiles presses his back further into the cushions, tries to distract himself from Scott’s words. Questions slip around his mind because it’s one thing to text, another to wonder _what if_ with any relationship, and another to have half of the equation adored across the country.

 “Scott!” calls Melissa’s voice from the hallway, before coming into the doorway. “We’d better go, it’s late.”

 With a groan, Scott rises from the couch and claps his friend on the shoulder. “Don’t go and listen to his album just ’cause he’s not here.” Stiles slaps his friend’s hand away because he really doesn’t do that and goes to hug Melissa goodbye.

Scott gives him a pointed look right before he leaves and glances at Stiles’ mobile, almost a little sheepish. He doesn’t say anything though, so Stiles thinks little of it and goes to shower and get ready for bed. Downstairs his father is still up, so he heads down and pretty much droops back onto the couch. He wants to make sure his father is okay on Christmas, despite having had company.

 His father has other ideas for topics of conversation.

 “I suppose,” John says too casually, so that Stiles sits back on his elbows and quirks his chin up, “some musicians have to take all the work they can get and have to work on Christmas Eve.”

 Stiles rolls his eyes. “I don’t think that’s the case, Dad.”

 John just eyes him carefully, and a small part of Stiles feels guilty for not clueing him in on just how popular a musician Derek is. He doesn’t want his father to worry, to stress, because it’s not worth that yet. Stiles isn’t even sure what’s happening. It’s too weird. He’s just glad that his father seems just as oblivious as Stiles was.

 At one o’clock, silence has rained down now that his father has gone to bed. There’s a slow burn in his ears as he listens to nothing, wondering when he will find the energy to stand so he can get upstairs and sleep. He thinks about crashing on the couch when there’s a dull thud on the front door. It’s quiet and contained, like thunder far in the distance.

Stiles groans.

 When he swings open the door carelessly, there’s Derek. He’s in the half light of the street lamps, shadows licking the side of his face as Derek’s eyes dart to Stiles.  Derek stands slightly flustered, looking dishevelled. Their gazes slowly grip onto each other and Stiles’ lungs expand until it’s painful. “Hi,” he breathes.

 “Sorry, I should’ve called, I had to do Christmas with my family, it was a bit hard to get away,” he says sheepishly, running a hand through his hair and angling his body slightly away from the door, as if he’s ready to clamber away.

 “Did you sneak out?”

 “No,” Derek lies.

 Stiles smiles, feeling things slowly lock into place inside his body. Derek clears his throat and glares, minutes passing while Stiles just stands there, lips spread.

 “Right, sorry,” blushes Stiles. “Come on in. My Dad’s upstairs.”

 Derek’s eyes glance upward and he takes an enthusiastic step forward just as Stiles turns back to him with a sudden thought on the tip of his tongue. Their chests brush against each other and Stiles gulps, the tips of his fingers swiping uselessly over the edge of the cool door knob, attempting to shut the door.

 Stiles shivers at the sudden closeness, or maybe it’s from the cold, and the workings of his mind have been replaced with sand or sugar, forgetting everything that had seemed important.

 He feels a palm rest on his hip, feels it trail slowly upwards underneath the hem of his shirt. Stiles stutters a little, incoherent, and he leans into the touch before Derek’s flushing and pulling away to tread further into the house.

 Heart already jumping out of his chest, Stiles tries to hide the way his face curls into disappointment. Slowly he turns to close the door, toes aching a little from the cold. He’s met with a frown, Derek not meeting his eye as he stands with hands in his pockets.

 “Sorry,” he mumbles before he strikes his gaze up. “Is it, is it okay for me to be here?”

 “Um,” says Stiles, confused. “Yes?”

 “You said you wanted to talk?”

 “I did? I mean, yeah, I want to, but when did I say that?” Stiles says, the warmth from their encounter fading somewhat.

 “Your text.”

 Stiles shoots over a curious gaze, feeling Derek follow him to lean against the door frame as he collects his phone from the couch. He opens up the messages and sure enough there’s one sent to Derek. _Happy Christmas! Can we talk?_

 He whips around and Derek straightens. “Um, I want to but I think Scott sent that.” Lydia probably had something to do with it too.

 “Oh,” replies Derek.

 “But I do mean Happy Christmas,” he supplies.

 Derek rolls his eyes, letting his lips purse into amusement. Stiles tries to respond to with a biting comment, but as soon as his mouth opens his words are fumbled by a yawn.

 “You’re tired,” he says, ignoring Stiles’ glare.

 “Nuh, uh,” Stiles says through another yawn. “Fine. I am tired, let’s go upstairs.” He marches forward and curls his fingers around Derek’s wrist, ignoring his startled expression as he gives him a gentle pull. Their hands weave together as they near the top floor, Derek’s rough and warm.

 The entanglement doesn’t last long, the air a sharp gap when Stiles lets go to collapse on his bed. Derek hovers by the wall and stares uncomfortably at the lines of Stiles’ belongings, shuffling backwards as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should stay.

 “You want to talk,” he insists when Stiles rolls over and beckons him forward.

 “Sure I do. In the morning,” he pats the edge of his bed slowly, smirking his way into a suggestive pose. Derek’s lips quiver a moment, eyes lingering over Stiles’ body before he gives a sharp scowl.

“What are you doing, then?” he snaps.

 Stiles blinks and sits up immediately. “You, uh. I wasn’t um, expecting,” he clears his throat. “Do you want to watch a movie?”

 Derek sighs at Stiles hopefulness, sees him already making room for Derek on the bed. He loses his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, throwing it on the floor. The idea of relaxing next to Stiles is ridiculously appealing. “Fine,” he manages, shifting towards the mattress.

 Stiles gives him a lazy smile, opening his laptop and crawling under the covers. He lets their thighs press together when Derek slowly lowers himself on the bed, and his ears turn pink.

 Derek raises an eyebrow as Stiles pulls up a crappy Christmas movie but doesn’t say anything, wondering if he could get away with brushing his fingers against Stiles’ again. They both know they have things to discuss, but it’s easy to want to forget about it for the night.

 Within ten minutes there’s a line of warmth folding over Derek’s shoulder, Stiles already asleep.

 “Stiles?” asks Derek, twisting his neck so he can see the smattering of moles over Stiles’ pale skin. He sighs when there’s no response and listens carefully to the rhythm of Stiles’ breathing. Derek closes the laptop, places it gently on the floor and turns off the nightlight. When Derek slides down the bed, Stiles huffs at being jostled, murmurs something about wanting to sleep.

 And because he wants to, Derek drapes his arm over Stiles. He pushes at his hip so that Derek can curl around his back, pressing a flat palm to Stiles’ torso. Because he wants to, he dips his head into Stiles’ neck and sighs into him. The stretch of night makes it easy to give in, and he’s not going to starve himself from the contact. If there’s one thing about being on tour it’s the fact that the people you want to hold close are kind of far away.

 “Wouldn’t have pegged you down for this kind of thing,” Stiles says to himself, a tired mumble against the pillows. He tries to open his eyes, tries to look at Derek’s face before he falls to his dreams, hoping that Derek will make an appearance in his subconscious as he sleeps.

 “You were wrong,” Derek says against his skin. Stiles shivers even though he’s locked into a warm chamber of embers as Derek’s arm does all but envelop him.

 “That’s okay,” Stiles says, and it’s too good to even wonder if this is all really happening.

*

  When Stiles wakes Derek is clinging to him, covers lost to their knees during the night. His skin is exposed above his waistband and the chilly air sweeps over it until Stiles presses himself closer to Derek, feeling the rise and fall of his chest, feeling wanted.

 He stays there for twenty minutes before he needs to use the bathroom, and downstairs he can hear the quiet sounds of his father getting ready for work. Stiles unwraps Derek from him and after staring bleary eyed at himself in the bathroom mirror, his frozen feet make their way downstairs. He finds the Sheriff leaning against the bench in his uniform, amused eyes on Stiles as he takes a sip of coffee.

 Stiles knows he knows as soon he makes eye contact with John. He rocks back onto his feet and tries to hide the happy smile etched onto his face. Derek Hale is upstairs in his bed.

 “Son,” John smirks. “I went to get the newspaper and guess what I found.”

 “Not the newspaper, I suppose,” yawns Stiles.

 “No. Good guess. A car. The same car that picked you up and took you to work last summer. Derek’s car,” John finishes, watching his son carefully. “It’s a very nice car,” he points out a little suspiciously.

 “Yes, well,” grins Stiles, “he’s upstairs. Sleeping.”

 John rolls his eyes and gives his son a considering look, trying not to think too much about the man in his son’s room.  “Okay,” he says. “You going to make him breakfast?”

 “Seriously?” asks Stiles. “Just go to work already, and I can work on the romancing by myself.”

 “Maybe pluck a flower from the garden,” he suggests, gulping down the rest of his coffee before Stiles drags him by the elbow to the door. Stiles can hear him chuckling on the other side of the wood and he tries to suppress a groan at his father trying to help.

 Two coffees in hand he steps up to his room carefully in case Derek is still sleeping. But when he walks in Derek’s legs are tangled in the covers like knotted string, rubbing his eyes as he sits up.

“Morning,” Stiles says brightly.

 Derek drops his hands slowly, shirt twisted around his body from his sleep. Stiles tries not to notice how the fabric stretches too tight over his muscles, instead focusing on the way Derek’s smile starts out slow and hesitant, his hair a little ruffled.

 “Thanks,” Derek says when Stiles passes him his coffee. Tentatively, Stiles sits himself on the end of the bed and except for the intermittent slurps of hot liquid running down their throats, they sit in silence. The rise and fall of Derek’s glances are frequent, but Stiles allows himself to gaze.

 “Are you staying today? With me, or –”

 “With you,” Derek replies easily, leaning back a little more and smirking at Stiles’ pleased look. He attempts to hide it, but gives up when Derek’s expression only grows deeper.

 “I’m so flattered you want to spend time with me I’ll even make you some breakfast. Eggs?” Stiles stands, the empty cup hanging at his side from the tip of his finger.

 Derek’s eyes travel up Stiles’ long body and he places his cup on the nearest surface. He tries to kick off the sheets but it doesn’t work out so well, Derek catching his body before he topples off the bed. Stiles laughs and there’s a soft growl before Derek yanks Stiles’ arm and pulls him to the bed, the empty cup dropping to the floor with a dull thud.

 “Shut up,” mutters Derek. “I brought you, a, um, gift.”

 Stiles shuffles closer on the bed so that their legs touch, the cotton sheets a thin wall between them. Derek reaches to the floor and pulls his jacket forward, Stiles watching the way his neck stretches. He pulls a small, black object out of the pocket and flicks it at Stiles.

 It bounces of Stiles’ chest and he glowers, fingers pulling around a small memory stick. “What have you got here?”

 Derek’s body stills. “You should have it, before we talk, I mean.”

 “Dude,” says Stiles. “I hope you’re not working yourself up or anything. Just with your life and mine, I want to sort some nagging things out. I mean, I like you, Derek.”

 “I don’t want it to be too much. It will, though. My life isn’t normal.”

 Stiles' eyebrows rise. “Maybe you can let me decide if it’s too much for myself.”

 Derek glowers and sinks his back into the pillows with folded arms. Stiles asks again what’s on the small device. “A song,” he grunts out. “I wrote you a song.”

 “I thought you did that all the time,” teases Stiles, face flushing.

 “This is different. This is a gift, it’s not like, _about you_. It’s just for you. There’s a difference,” Derek grumbles, the air pressing his lungs flat while he tries not to regret giving the damn thing to Stiles.

 “If you say so,” says Stiles lightly, leaning forward a little.

 Derek finds his foot and nudges Stiles’ thigh with his toes, avoiding eye contact. “I’m hungry,” Derek tells him, and Stiles scowls. “You offered food.”

 Stiles pulls back and grumbles, realising that Derek’s not going to do anything until they’ve had their chat. Derek tries not to chuckle as he watches Stiles leave, tries to fight the urge to tug on his wrist and pull him into an embrace. The memory stick sits hot in Stiles’ hand, the offering of a song for a Christmas present making him feel surprisingly warm.

*

 Derek’s only in town for a couple of days and Stiles convinces him to go see the new Hobbit movie with him. Their shoulders brush as they enter the theatre, Stiles commenting on his hopes for this movie since the previous one didn’t quite cut it in some areas. There’s a clump of girls by the counter and two minutes after waiting in line they spot Derek and start to flail.

 Tiny, broken screams fill the air and Stiles brings it upon himself to slide away and buy the tickets himself. His foot hovers nervously over the ground, head jerking back towards Derek as he tries to greet his fans with a smile. Stiles pays, back pressed against a hand rail as he waits for Derek to sign popcorn cartons of all things. More food gets stuffed into his mouth as content, he watches a smile tug at Derek’s lips, sometimes turning apologetic when he catches Stiles’ eye.

 It’s goddamn adorable, Derek’s eyebrows pulled in surprise like he can’t believe people are here to like him, any version of him. It’s a little sad too, seeing it in person and not just listening to it over the expanse of albums.

 “You’re popular,” Stiles teases when the girls exit giggling and they fall back into step beside each other.

 “They don’t know me,” says Derek. He tries to make it come across as nonchalant but he doesn’t quite manage. Stiles lets his free hand brush against Derek’s as they walk side by side, lingering for a moment before they find their seats. “They see what they want to.”

 “Yeah, but they like what they see. And what they’ve heard. Oh come on, you don’t need me to tell you that you’re talented,” Stiles says with a frown, Derek brushing off his words with a sceptical expression on his face. He moves ahead a little, pushing the heavy metal door to the theatre open when they run into two excited boys. They recognise Derek instantly, voices travelling into the darkness where the flash of trailers play.

 He tries not to sigh when he feels Derek’s palm against his lower back, Stiles receiving a silent smile before he’s passed the popcorn again. A small jerk of Derek’s head tells Stiles to go into the screening without him, and Stiles’ insides try not to bristle. He wonders how much of the world he’ll have to share Derek with.

 “Who’s that?” asks the piqued voice of the scruffy blonde boy, eyes eager.

 “A friend,” he hears Derek’s curt reply and Stiles decides to head as far along the row as he can, back where Derek will still see him but where he can hear the crashing of buildings from the speakers and not Derek’s conversation with the two boys. Stiles waits patiently and just as the movie starts, Derek glides over and plops himself down next to Stiles.

 “Sorry,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

 “No, man, it’s cool. Is it always like that for you?” Stiles whispers.

 Derek shrugs. “I guess. But I don’t mind meeting the fans. People without an agenda.” He reaches into popcorn carton and stuffs a healthy amount of it into his mouth to Stiles’ amused expression. Derek swallows. “You ate most of it when you were watching me before,” he points out and Stiles blushes, glad the darkness might keep his cheeks hidden.

 “Well,” says Stiles, “you missed the trailers and that’s the best bit. Do they show trailers at premieres? Because I feel like the movie going experience isn’t complete without them.”

 Derek shrugs easily, eyes focused on the moving images on the screen in front of them. “Maybe one day I’ll take you to one.”

 Stiles' eyes widen, body tensing, the straw to his drink hovering before his mouth. “Seriously? A premiere?” he asks.

 Derek gives a firm nod, small smirk hidden away but peeking out at the edges. Stiles glares at Derek’s casual stance, eyes him sinking into his seat comfortably and shoving his feet over the empty seat in front of theirs.

 “No seriously –” Stiles begins.

 “Stiles, we’re trying to watch a movie.”

 He ignores him. “You wouldn’t just try to sneak me in the back or something, would you?” Stiles is little more forceful than intended, and Derek’s eye roll is replaced with an exasperated sigh.

 “No, you would be my date.” He hesitates. “If you want that. I mean, not yet. I don’t get invited to those very often, that one time I was with a date and the other I wrote a song for it. Peter seemed to think _that_ was a good idea.”

 “I didn’t hear that song,” starts Stiles and he wants press further, but Derek shoves another handful of butter popcorn in his mouth and eyes the screen innocently. He scowls. “We are so talking later.” He’s not going to pretend he didn’t hear Derek mention Stiles as a friend to those boys, but then again, those boys are pretty insignificant in the grand scheme of things. This is a date after all.

*

  “Jesus Christ that movie was long, but oodles better than the first,” Stiles says in a gush as he steps into Derek’s car. Derek just listens to him prattle on a little before they’re pulling up in front of the coffee shop. Stiles stares at the door, surprised.

 “You don’t want to go back and spend time with your family?” he asks.

 “You paid for the movie, I’ll pay for coffees,” Derek says with a shrug, swinging his legs out of the car and zipping around. Stiles follows him into the shop, Derek holding the door open for him as Isaac glances up from the counter.

 “Hey,” he breaks out into a wide grin. “Happy Holidays. Same drinks as normal?”

 “If you can remember them,” Stiles replies dryly and they both continue to their usual table. Above them strings cross over each other on the ceiling, tissue paper snowflakes hanging down. They look delicate; they look how Stiles doesn’t want their relationship to be. Derek glances up and frowns.

 “Talk.”

 Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Cutting straight to the chase then, are we?”

 Derek nods, jaw settling like he’s bracing himself for something.

 “If you want. You said that you did; now here’s the opportunity,” he says.

 Stiles nods slowly, notices the way Derek’s fingertips press hard against the table, notices how his own knees rattle. “You’re serious about me,” he starts.

 “Yes,” says Derek in a tight voice. “I thought that was obvious.”

 “Well when did that happen?” Stiles says eagerly, leaning forward.

 Derek shrugs and ducks his head away, eyes intent on Isaac bringing the coffees forward. He gives them both considering looks and Derek hands over a bank note. There’s a sharp smile under curly hair and Isaac hopes aloud that they’ll both have fun.

 “Well,” says Stiles, leaning back when he’s certain he’s not going to get an answer. “That’s nice to know. That’s mainly what I wanted to know. I’m glad you pulled your head out of your ass about that.”

 “Mainly?” Derek ignores his last statement.

 “You’re willing to be seen in public with me?” Stiles blurts out.

 “In theory yes,” Derek says too carefully, tilting his head to the side to take in Stiles’ reaction. His fingers carefully loop around the ceramic of the coffee cup to take a measured sip.

 Stiles stirs his coffee with a bit too much force and snorts. “What sort of an answer is that?”

 Derek’s expression turns dark. In a low voice, his words escape. “You don’t, you won’t get it. Having things stay private is hard. I,” he falters, body leaning over the table. “I’m used to it, being the way that it is. But it’s not fun, Stiles. It’s really not.”

 He scowls back at the table, knowing Derek’s right. “Okay,” he says grudgingly. “I mean, I don’t, I don’t want that but I want you. And I want you whenever I want. That’s mainly what I’m thinking about.”

 Derek gives him a small smile, eyes glinting a little beside the fairy lights stationed around the store. His gaze falls to Stiles’ lips before he sits back and wriggles his shoulders into a more casual position. Stiles wants to grab at him, despite where they are, despite Isaac watching them gleefully from the counter, despite what they’re talking about.

 He tries to distract himself and plays at another worry. “So when, so when you told those two boys we were friends...that’s what you think the whole world should see?”

  “At least until you finish college,” Derek says. Stiles watches Derek’s eyelashes flutter downwards, his lips opening in contemplation. He sees what Derek’s trying to say, even if he doesn’t like it, realises that they have to be careful if they want a chance. A quiet voice almost leaks out of Derek. “That’s all I can give you.”

 Stiles glances up. Derek’s eyebrows are folded in a hard line and his whole body looks like it might contract into itself until it breaks. He slides his hand over the table and lets his palm move over Derek’s briefly. Not enough that it draws attention unless someone’s really looking, but the shop is quiet.

 “All you can give me?” Stiles says in an echo, and Derek glances at his retreating palm, face going into blank composure. “Fuck, Derek, it’s enough. For now it’s enough.” It’s enough to know that the understanding Derek’s demanding of him means that he cares how this pans out, he cares about Stiles.

 A warm, frothy feeling of hope settles over Stiles’ limbs and opposite him Derek relaxes.

 “When will I see you next?” asks Stiles, a little hesitantly.

 “I’ll figure it out,” promises Derek in a hard voice.

 Before Stiles can respond there’s a shrill sound coming from Derek’s pocket and Stiles sits back with a smile while Derek answers his phone.

 “Laura,” Derek says with a slightly exasperated sigh. “Yes. I talked to him, it’s, I think it’s fine.” His teeth scrape together. “Fine. Tell Peter I’m coming.” Derek hangs up the call without another word.

 “You have to go?” asks Stiles, disappointed. He was hoping Derek would drive him home and somewhere along this plan Stiles would finally be able to get his hands on Derek.

 He frowns. “Sorry. Peter has some stuff I said I’d do. I should’ve had it done by now if I’m being honest. Is there anything else you want?”

 Stiles wants to drag him into the back room for a bit but he doubts Isaac will be on board with that idea.

 “You should totally perform at the coffee shop’s karaoke night,” Stiles says instead with a smirk.

 Derek stands and towers over, eyes narrowed at Stiles’ grin. He grabs several packets of sugar and flicks them at Stiles and tries not to notice the way his lips spread wide when he does laugh.

 “Really?” laughs Stiles after him. He begins to croon out _pour some sugar on me, in the name of love!_ Derek stops a few steps away and points.

  His voice is low, full of promise. “You should leave the singing to me.” He turns.  “Isaac, can you drive Stiles home, your shift must be almost over?”

 “Only if he covers my shift tomorrow!” Isaac yells from the store room.

 Stiles smiles down at his coffee for a lot longer than necessary, his phone beeping with a text from Derek saying he will call tomorrow. Isaac is the one to break Stiles from his daydreaming with an order to pick up the sugar packets.

 “Looks like things are going well, I’m rooting for the two of you,” his grin his lopsided.

 “Well,” says Stiles. There’s something vaguely concrete about it all now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anyone was waiting for this chapter and it was a little later than usual. I had a test to study for. They are not fun. The chapter was giving me a little grief so I'm just going to post it.
> 
> I like these two talking. I like them making a big deal about talking. I think it's important. 
> 
> Hope you're all liking the story, feel free to pop by my [tumblr](http://matildajones.tumblr.com) if you'd like. Thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

  The black wires of Stiles’ headphones are in a tangle around his fingers until the knot finally gives and he presses the buds into his ears. Shoes still on his feet, Stiles falls back to his unmade bed with the hope that the sheets still smell like Derek. He hits the space bar on his laptop where the memory stick is plugged in and he allows the song to play.

 Soft notes infiltrate his ears and Stiles can’t stop the tips of his lips reaching upward. It’s rough and bare, and Stiles isn’t complaining when Derek’s voice hums low into his ear. It weaves effortlessly over the guitar, one of only a few layers of sound.

 There are no lyrics, it doesn’t need them. If Stiles could stop his mind wandering and feeling giddy then he could probably listen to the track while he’s studying. But right now it’s all for him and it’s hard to concentrate at all, imagining Derek’s lips vibrating softly against each other as he sings, wondering if he’ll ever get to hear any of the other music that’s been hinted at.  He’s lost in his own thoughts when his phone purrs at the wooden beside table and he almost misses the call.

 “Sorry!” breathes Stiles. “Hi. I was listening to your song, didn’t hear the phone go off.”

 “Oh,” Derek begins to say before going quiet. Stiles grins widely with no one to watch him, gripping the phone tighter than he’s ever done. He feels a little if he’s on the edge of a high, not sure how to think, toeing the line a little blind yet eager. There’s something to reach for, that’s for certain. Stiles waits for Derek to continue, the silence crackling before he asks if Stiles liked it.

 “Yes,” he chuckles. “One day you should tell me what it’s really about. I don’t know enough about music to guess.”

 “I’m sure you have plenty of ideas,” Derek replies dryly. “I recorded it in my bedroom like I used to do before I got picked up. It was strange.”

 “Well, I’m flattered. I also thought you were calling tomorrow, mister. If you’re not careful you might come across as a little eager,” Stiles says into the phone, trying not to sound that way himself. Derek’s scowl is audible.

 “Fine,” he says. “I can ring you tomorrow as scheduled.”

 Stiles pauses. “Wait, seriously?”

 “Yes,” he sounds amused.

 “Derek!” Stiles complains. “I want to talk to you.”

 “Are you sure? I thought you wouldn’t want to rush things,” his voice plays along innocently. “I can go.”

 Stiles glares at his wall. “No. That’s okay.”

 He hears Derek shuffle over the phone and there’s a small huff and the crushing of fabric when Derek falls onto his bed. Stiles can imagine it clearly. “You sure?” he can feel the smirk.

 “ _Yes,_ ” Stiles hisses. Derek laughs through the speakers, the sound sweeping into Stiles’ ears and they talk for a while until he hears a girl’s voice burst into Derek’s room. There’s a groan and a couple of hissing voices and the small chink of something being knocked over before the same voice strikes Stiles’ ear.

 “So when do we get to meet you?” he hears through the crackle of the phone.

 “Uh,” Stiles says eloquently.

 “ _Do not tickle me, Derek!”_ Stiles has to hold the phone away from his ear and bursts of angry giggles fill the room. Stiles sighs, because while Scott had been a great friend growing up he kind of wishes that he had another sibling that he could have fought with.

 “My sister,” Derek grumbles, finally getting the phone. “Oof, Cora, let go! Stiles, I’ll see you tomorrow, I have to go deal with this little minx.”

 “ _Your boyfriend can’t just steal you when you’re at home! At least bring him over?”_ he hears through the crackle of the phone.

 “Never,” bites Derek. “You’ll scare him away.”

 Stiles laughs and when he goes downstairs his father has arrived from his shift, taking in the small smile playing at Stiles’ lips. He only comments with the raise of his eyebrows and Stiles rolls his eyes in return, stepping around him and into the kitchen to start making dinner. Derek’s song is already transferred to his phone and he listens to it as his fingers work with the food. It’s better with each listen.

*

  Isaac flicks Stiles a text the next morning before his alarm as if he needs reminding that he agreed to Isaac’s shift. He clambers out of bed and goes to set up the shop and one of the first customers through the door is Lydia. Stiles brightens.

 “You’re in Beacon Hills!” he calls out. “When did that happen?”

 Lydia saunters forward looking proud of herself. She flashes Stiles a row of teeth and mentions something about persuasion. Stiles doesn’t ask what that entails and Lydia smirks when he remains silent on the matter, giving a small laugh as she takes her coffee.

 “So, how’s the internship?” Tough work crunching numbers, Stiles guesses, if they initially didn’t want her home for Christmas.

 Lydia shrugs, her body sitting up straighter at the table closest to the counter. “Work at the studio is fine. I’m more interested about that musician of yours.” Stiles glowers at her, suspicious of her involvement in his love life already.

 She grins at him. “Come on, Stiles. Spill.”

 “We’re meeting up today,” he admits, a small smile escaping as he looks at the ground. He hears Lydia sigh.

 “You are so far gone, it’s ridiculous. I hope he feels the same way,” she says carefully. The words dance dangerous on her tongue.

 Stiles scowls at her. “You have so much faith, Lydia.”

 “I just care about you, is all,” she says with an innocent shrug. She twists her legs over the chair and drops her serviettes into the bin. Sauntering forward, she leans on the counter and her lips smooth out into an invasive expression, looking Stiles over like she has a battle plan. “Has Derek told you about Kate Argent yet?”

“What?” Stiles says breezily, pretending not to notice her look. He puts his attention to making her another one of her tailor made drinks.

  “I know you didn’t look him up. I did it for you,” Lydia says like she owes him for it. One day he will get used to her meddling. When Stiles says nothing she continues, “He’s going to have to mention it before you find it out from somewhere else. It’s only inevitable.”

 “Is it really that bad?” he says before he can stop himself. He tries to squash down his curiosity, feeling guilty for wanting to know, for wanting to ask Lydia to come right out and say it. His hands flail in the air for a second before Stiles narrows his eyes and refocuses. His voice is even. “Thank you for your commentary, Lydia. Things are going quite well, thanks. I don’t want to spoil it.”

 

 Lydia nods, her smile widening slightly. The thought has taken hold in Stiles’ head and that’s enough for her, so she takes her coffee and slides away from the counter. Her fingers wave him off with an air of carelessness to hide her continued concern. Stiles really doesn’t want to think about it.

 Lydia swings the glass door open and rests her hip against its frame when she calls back to Stiles.

 “Honey, you’re going to have to ask him about it eventually.”

 Stiles scowls at her retreating figure knowing full well that Lydia’s words are going to haunt him. His lips press together and soon there’s a grunt, an unimpressed noise and a dull thud as two figures collide at the door. Stiles snaps his head up to find Derek at the entrance.

  Lydia’s eyes turn wide after she saves her coffee, her displeased expression vanishing for a more disarming one. “Just talking about you, Derek. How funny,” her teeth shine and she adjusts her skirt, Derek still and unsure opposite her. Lydia darts off and leaves an air of discomfort behind her.

 He mutters under his breath about boundaries until he catches Derek’s eye. He immediately replaces his glower with a weak smile but Derek doesn’t buy it and his steps are determined as he walks forward.

 “What was she talking about?”

 Derek peers at him through a thick veil, shoulders tense as he asks a question he doesn’t want to know the answer to. His features set like dry mud, threatening to crumble beneath Stiles’ words if he’s not careful. Stiles hates the expression, wishes he could get rid of it for good.

 He waves his hand. “It’s okay, don’t worry about it.”

 “No,” he insists, as Stiles automatically makes his coffee order. “Tell me.”

 While the machine rumbles away Stiles averts his eyes from the metal and chances a look at Derek. His eyes are dark and framed by a defensive brow, body rigid as he anticipates Stiles’ answer.

 “Kate Argent?” Stiles supplies with a sigh. “You don’t have to...” he trails off as Derek gives him a stiff nod, swallowing.

 He finishes the coffee and the two stand there in silence, the early morning chill more noticeable. Derek’s eyes are intent on Stiles and their fingers brush when he slides the drink over. He lets his touch linger.

 In the end Stiles pushes the cup to the side and gently curls the tips of his fingers around Derek’s, thumb trailing over his knuckles. He can do this if he doesn’t look up, if he focuses on the dip of Derek’s skin. Something must be right because Derek shuffles forward slightly, turning over his palm to grip Stiles’ hand firm. Stiles gives an encouraging smile and Derek’s face immediately softens; a small blush on his cheeks.

 “She was a journalist,” Derek says, his hand taking Stiles’ fully and clasping tight. As his words go on, Stiles tries not to grimace at Derek’s strengthening hold. “I didn’t know. She dated me, I, thought,” he clears his throat. “Anyway, she got her big break, telling the world all the ways she used my money, my body, how gullible I was and –” he finishes abruptly and turns his head away. “Then I was with a lot of people after that.”

“Okay,” whispers Stiles, giving Derek’s hand a brief squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

 Derek gives a grudging smile and pulls his hand away.

 “There’s a lot of shit about me out there.”

 “Can’t be all bad,” Stiles says. He’s aware Derek was probably putting things nicely.

 “No,” Derek says back. “It can’t.”

 The door chimes and another customer walks in, nose in their phone as they scuff their shoes along the floor to the counter. Stiles tilts his head as if to ask whether or not he’ll stay. Derek gives him a nod after a few seconds and heads to the table by the counter instead of his usual one. It’s the place where Lydia sat.

 Stiles tries to serve the next customer with a bright smile but his eyes travel over to Derek more than once, completely unfocussed. Derek is staring at his table, hands clasped around his coffee without taking a sip. The tip from the customer is next to nothing, but Stiles doesn’t care, he just wants Derek to be okay.

 He’s happy that Derek’s sharing with him at least a little, even if the situation had been catalysed by Lydia. Despite the brevity, Derek still felt comfortable enough to confide in Stiles and he’s not even sure he wants to know the details. He’s about to turn to Derek, to talk to him, to snap him out of his own head when more and more people begin to drop in. There’s a book club gathering, people meeting up for morning tea, and at least they’re all kind of old and don’t recognises Derek.

 When the rush is over he glances over to find Derek watching him quietly.

 “Are you going to watch me make coffees all day?” Stiles teases.

 Derek meets his gaze, shoulders sinking a little sheepishly but he doesn’t look away. In fact, he leans even closer, licking his lips as he allows himself to trail his gaze over Stiles’ collarbone, trying to accentuate Stiles’ point. He could probably stay looking forever.

 Stiles rolls his eyes, trying not to squirm under the attention. “You want another coffee?” he says.

  Derek shakes his head.

 “Anything else?” Stiles receives the same response.

 “You are a man of many words,” he announces. “I hope that won’t be a problem, I already talk too much for the both of us.”

 Derek snorts. “You talk fine.”

*

Towards the end of his shift, it seems that they have another visitor. Scott steps through the door, calling out his greeting until his eyes fall on Derek. Oh no. Stiles cringes at the complete look of determination on his Scott’s face, tries not to notice the way his strides become longer and his back a little stiffer.

 “Derek,” he says, tilting his head to the side in acknowledgement.

 “Scott.”

 Stiles eyes flit up to the clock, wondering how much interference he can put up with for one day. His hands fumble around as he makes Scott’s order, laughing nervously and talking over Scott’s attempts to make conversation. Derek frowns at him. Stiles falters into silence.

 “So,” Scott says, biting his lip. At least he looks a little nervous. “Are you two like secret boyfriends now?”

  Arms folded, his voice is full of accusation behind the question and he stares Derek into a deeper frown. Stiles wishes he would just stop even though he knows that Scott’s trying to help. He holds back a groan and tries to catch Derek’s eye.

 When he finally looks up, Stiles gives him a shrug. It’s probably not the nicest thing to do but he’s going to let Derek answer this one how he likes. Scott raises his chin in fake politeness, waiting on Derek far longer than necessary. Stiles sees Derek take in a large breath, sees the flicker of wariness on his eyes.

 “Yes,” Derek says. “Secret boyfriends is an adequate description. If you talk like a fourteen year old.”

 “I don’t talk like a fourteen year old!”

 Stiles sighs at his petulant tone.

“Fine,” Scott seems to give up and takes his coffee from Stiles’ waiting hand. Stiles tries to smile brightly between the two of them, hoping for the love of God that they will eventually get along, that they will have the opportunity to get along.

 The tension in the air begins to dissipate until they hear a chair scrape against the floor, Derek standing and shoving the wooden frame away with his foot. “I should go,” he says, eyes trailing everywhere but Stiles’ face. Scott’s mouth opens in disbelief and Stiles’ hands flutter by his sides.

 “What? Are you kidding? I know how funny you like to be, Derek,” Stiles says in a hard voice. Derek looks him in the eye and then his gaze flits down to Stiles’ lips almost unwillingly. Stiles’ heart pulls tight in his chest before Derek is almost shaking his head to himself and saying goodbye.

 “You spend time with Scott,” Derek manages. He pulls out his wallet, fingers flicking through the cash before he slaps a few bills on the table. Stiles’ mouth hangs a little open, expecting a little more from the day.

 Stiles stares after him for a moment and then a flare of anger makes his limbs move. He ducks around the counter until he’s clutching at Derek’s elbow and pulling him into the store room. Derek rolls his eyes and lets himself be dragged from prying eyes – not that there are any since Scott is looking guiltily at the floor – before he shrugs off Stiles’ hand and straightens his leather jacket.

 Stiles scowls at him. “What the fuck, dude? You can’t just leave when I never get to see you!” When everything is still so new.

 “Scott’s here,” Derek says through clenched teeth, trying to avoid Stiles’ gaze.

 But it’s difficult because he and Stiles are almost the same height and he’s being crowded into the wall by Stiles’ lithe frame. Opposite Derek there are wide, angry eyes sliding over him, ribbons of emotion falling through the air as Stiles tries to make sense of the situation.

 “I see him all the time!” hisses Stiles. “Besides, I’m sure the both of you are perfectly capable of tolerating each other’s presence.” He runs his tongue along his teeth, trying not to get too pissed off. Derek doesn’t look angry though, the more Stiles speaks. His mouth sags a little in resignation, eyes just shy of making contact with Stiles’.

 He rocks back on his heels. “What is it?” says Stiles, his voice tight.

 Derek sighs. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it, I’ll see you later. Hopefully.”

 “No,” Stiles takes a step forward though he is close enough already. Their chests do more than brush and Stiles lifts his hands, brings them forward to cup Derek’s face, to coax his worries out of him. Derek’s breath catches but Stiles drops his hands at the last second. “Tell me. Please.”

 “Fine,” says Derek, huffing a little. “It’s fine, it’s just, your friends.”

 Stiles rolls his eyes. “They’re not that bad.”

 “No, they’re not. They’re great, and they care about you. That’s – that’s good,” he sighs. “And I know I wasn’t _good_ to begin with, that you deserve better, but it’s clear they think I’m going to hurt you.”

 And Stiles can’t deny that. He bites his lip. “Sorry.”

 Derek rolls his eyes, amused. “Don’t apologise. Some members of my family can be fiercely protective when it counts.”

 “Okay, I’ll remember that,” Stiles says slowly. He gets a sharp look of surprise, Derek’s mouth open slightly as they stare at each other.

 Stiles deliberates moving back to the counter because it’s awkward, awkward having Stiles' statement pulse through the air. He knows that they’re both vulnerable, knows that they’re both letting someone in and that both of them are human, that mistakes could shatter them like glass. He wants to take a step back but Derek straightens and the air smells like coffee beans again. He wants to taste the coffee on Derek’s tongue and he notices how long Derek’s eyelashes are.

He leans forward and their noses brush. Heart still, Stiles can hear their breathing among the quiet, can hear the wooden planks groan underneath him when he shifts his weight forward. Derek closes his eyes long before Stiles’ lips get anywhere near his and Stiles isn’t sure what to do with his hands. It’s only a kiss and he’s never been more nervous, never been so surprised at his own hesitation. When he finally, finally gets there, Derek’s lips are soft. They only touch for a second before Derek lets out a small noise in the back of his throat and there are hands moving up to Stiles’ shoulders, pulling him near for a hard and hurried kiss.

 Stiles clutches at his shirt, tries to get closer, never wants to leave. His hands grab at Derek’s hair and thread through the soft locks, Derek’s palms hot against his back. It feels so, so good. Stiles breaks away with a satisfied laugh, leaning forward again for a brief moment.

 “Thank god that happened,” he can barely hear his own voice, his pulse still thudding in his ears. Derek looks down at him, eyes dark and heavy. His hand slips upwards and two fingers move along the curve of Stiles’ throat before they tilt his chin up, and Derek gives him another long, lingering kiss.

 That is, it’s long until from outside Scott barks, “ _customer!”_ and Stiles breaks from Derek, swearing, flushed and grinning. There’s one more tip that he’s not going to get. Scott smirks at him as he exits the back room and almost crashes into the counter, flailing. His knees still feel kind of weak, if he’s being honest with himself.

 The man orders his coffee, hardly amused at Stiles’ probably dishevelled appearance. “You should have served him,” Stiles tells Scott, flicking stray coffee beans at him.

 “And what? Let the health and safety certificate at this place become totally invalid?” Scott says with a smile.

 “How long did you sit here coming up with that one?” Stiles says back, and that’s when Derek slides out of the backroom. His front presses close to Stiles’ back for a brief moment and Scott makes a move to gag but Stiles doesn’t care because he can feel Derek brush his thumb against his neck.

 He gives the two of them hard looks. “You two,” he points his fingers. “No fighting.”

 “We’re not fighting,” scoffs Scott. Derek only smiles at him.

*

 “How long are we going to wait?” Scott says in a bored voice.

 Stiles gives him a hard look. “Forever, since we don’t have any other option, Scott. Unless you’ve got a wand that will turn a pumpkin into a carriage.”

 “We don’t have any pumpkins,” he says seriously. “Besides, we’re not going to a ball to meet a prince, are we? Your prince is supposed to be coming here. To pick us up. Ten minutes ago.” Scott reminds him.

 He shrugs in return. Derek had offered to take the two of them to the small airport as Stiles’ father had acquired yet another late shift. Derek himself wasn’t actually leaving till the following morning.

 Scott retreats to the tv and thankfully stays quiet while Stiles glances at his watch, waiting no more than two paces from the front door.

 “Dude,” calls out Scott. “He’ll be here.”

 Stiles bites his lip and crashes on the couch next to Scott who gives him an encouraging smile. The hot and cold coming from that boy crinkles Stiles’ mind but he decides to ignore it. It won’t matter too much when they’re alone in their dorm again.

 He jumps to his feet the moment he hears the knock. Scott follows him slowly, smiling over Stiles’ shoulder when he sees Laura standing there with a bright smile.

 “Hi!” she says, leaning forward and grabbing a bag by the door. “Sorry we’re a little late.” Derek comes up behind her with a snort, hands in his pockets. He takes the bag from her as soon as she hands it out.

 “Your fault,” Derek tells her, eyes meeting Stiles’. He grins back.

 “I wanted to see Stiles again,” Laura says, giving Stiles’ arm a squeeze. They manage to get all the baggage in the car and Scott and him slide into the back seat, Laura twisting her body around to talk to them over the head rest. She and Scott get along surprisingly well.

 The airport is small and quiet; the perks of an eleven thirty pm flight. Inside, the white glare of walls welcome them and soon they’re standing in the middle of the motley coloured carpet, unsure what to say. Stiles meets Derek’s gaze, wonders if the dozen people around them count as in public. The four of them stand in a small circle and Stiles shifts his feet around awkwardly until he and Derek stand side by side. Their hands bump together twice.

 “So,” says Stiles. Laura raises her eyebrows and heaves a dramatic sigh before she launches herself at Stiles for a hug. It’s much tighter than he expected and Laura finds his ear that isn’t by Derek’s side and whispers.

 “Thanks Stiles,” are her words, and she pulls back with her hands still on his arms. Laura’s lips stretch into a smile, eyes raking over Stiles’ face as if she’s seeing if he’s something good. She seems satisfied with her findings, pulls back and says good bye to Scott. “I’ll wait at the car.” She clears her throat suggestively, and a sound of exasperation leaves her brother’s throat.

 Stiles turns to Derek. “So,” he says again, rocking onto his toes. His bags are splayed at his feet and Derek looks just as conflicted as Stiles, lips tight in frustration. “I’ll see – I’ll call you.”

 “Yeah,” he replies. They’re going to need a year planner with all their dates written on it, Stiles can see. They’re going to be one of those couples so he can know when they’re going to see each other again.

 Stiles leans forward without thinking, only slightly, eyes gripping Derek’s mouth. He just wants to press their bodies together in so many different ways that it’s killing him. Derek seems just as distracted as him, not noticing the one or two souls that have started to recognise him.

 “Guys,” says Scott, looking away from the departure board. He quietly nudges Stiles in the side with his elbow. “What happened to secret?”

 Stiles straightens instantly, even takes a few steps back. Derek’s eyes drop to the ground and his hands return to his pockets. Scott plucks his boarding pass from Stiles’ hand and walks off with his bad slung over his shoulder.

 “Well, I should go,” he says finally. He bends down to pick up his bag and scowls when he notices the zipper has become caught on one of his shirts. He fiddles with it for a few minutes, decides to give up, and when he stands Derek is nowhere to be seen.

 Their half finished encounter leaves Stiles with disappointment; pretty sure that whatever happened didn’t count as a proper goodbye. Stiles is going to have to have a talk with Derek about disappearing too quickly. With a frown, he grabs his bag and heads to the corridor that leads to the gate. He rounds a corner and has about two seconds before someone grabs him by the shirt and thrusts him against the wall.

 “What the –” Stiles manages before he glimpses Derek’s stubble and piercing eyes and he’s got a pair of lips pressed against his own. His hands flail a moment before finding a place over Derek’s shoulders and around his neck. He lets himself melt as he opens his mouth with Derek’s name on his lips, and it’s desperate and fast and over as soon as they hear footsteps and chatter from around the corner. Derek takes a step back.

 “You’re, yeah. You have a good flight, and I _will_ see you. Sometime.” Derek’s voice is low and fucking wrecked while Stiles nods dumbly, trying to ignore the couple passing them.  They don’t bat an eyelid and he relaxes. Derek offers him a smile, quickly darts forward and presses a burning kiss to his jaw before rounding the corridor and leaving.

 Stiles pauses before he can recollect himself. Scott’s waiting just before the gate and he grabs at Stiles’ elbow and pulls him through to another machine that waits for their boarding pass. Scott shakes his head at him.

 “Dude, you’re dating fucking Derek Hale. Derek Hale,” he says it as if he can’t quite believe it’s actually happening.

 Stiles frowns. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

 A guilty expression falls on Scott’s face and he blushes.

 “Oh my god, you’re a fan! Who knew? Scott!” Stiles shoves him in the side. “Why do you have to act like you hate him, then?”

 “It’s a matter of principle. I don’t, he’s, it’s not a conventional relationship and his slate isn’t exactly clean. But Derek Hale, man. Good job,” he admits.

 Stiles narrows his eyes.

 “What?” asks Scott, “I’m trying to make up for all the times I ditched you for Allison.”

 “This,” Stiles says, “is not the way to do it.”

 A minute before a lady comes around to tell him to turn off his phone he quickly flicks a text to Derek. _Scott’s pretending not to like you because he’s an idiot._ Stiles lets the screen go black and settles into his seat, eyes closing and quietly reliving Derek pretty much mauling him in the corridor. It was unexpected and a slight risk but Stiles doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's your kiss! And we get more of Lydia too. 
> 
> Oh, and in this story Cora is still at high school.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for any comments. :).
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://matildajones.tumblr.com).


	8. Chapter 8

 “Stiles?” Kira says, happy curiosity spreading from her throat. Stiles’ gaze darts up from the sheets of paper in front of him. His knees are jiggling underneath the table and a pen is twisting in his hand. He’s pretty sure he’s been humming.

 “Yeah?”

 “I’m guessing your break was good,” she returns the tip of her pen to her flashcards.

 Stiles grins and without words he thinks back to Derek’s lips on his. He misses it already, misses it as soon as he lost sight of Derek’s retreating back. There’s more good than bad so far, right now he can deal with separation, especially when there’s a lot to distract him. He nods at her. “What gave it away?”

 “We have two assignments, one essay and two tests to prepare for yet you are still grinning like an idiot,” Kira tells him. She bites her lip. “Did you hang out with your friend, um, Scott?”

 Stiles raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Uh, kind of. I hang out with him all the time, though, so. You still running your blog?”

 She nods enthusiastically.

 Stiles leans back in his chair, wide hands resting on the back of his head and knees parting around the chair. “I could talk about Derek Hale all day.”

 “Well,” says Kira, clearly amused. “That’s nice to know, but we have to study.”

 Stiles pouts.

*

 Their conversation has lasted well over an hour, and Stiles is surprised that Derek has the time. He certainly doesn’t, but the ache to hear Derek’s voice wins over anything. Their words now are coming less frequent, now simply listening to each other breathing or hearing the quiet sounds of Derek’s guitar and soft hums.

“How do you feel about surprise visits?” Stiles sighs into the phone, spread out over his bed so that his limbs dangle over the edges and on to the floor. The phone is propped up by a pillow, and it keeps sliding down so that Derek’s voice fades for a moment before Stiles shoves the device back to his ear.

 “What do you mean? Are you going to follow me on tour?” He can hear Derek’s smirk.

 “No,” Stiles shoots back quickly, since he’s definitely not going to fall into the groupie category and says as much. “I wanted you to visit me.” It’s his way of saying I miss you but he can’t quite bring himself to utter those exact words.

 Derek’s soft laugh fills his ear, and Stiles wants to feel the tickle of Derek’s hot breath against his skin, he wants his lips close and hovering over his throat. It’s a lot to ask. “Maybe.”

 Stiles twists his body around and grins against his pillow. “Yeah?”

 “Yeah.”

*

 A few weeks later the work starts to hit him a little more. His toes begin to ache with the pain of walking around classes all day, and his brain is short circuiting despite several cups of well deserved coffee. He thinks about giving up for the day when Scott shows up at the library and starts tugging on his sleeve.

 Stiles packs up his things at Scott’s excited insistence and then has to stand awkwardly at the edge of the table while he makes introductions between his study partner and his friend. He’d tease Scott for his dopey expression if he hadn’t spent the first few days after returning from home with a matching one of his own.

 He collapses on his unmade bed when Scott throws something at his hand. It’s big and white and the corner grazes Stiles’ cheek with a soft burn. Stiles rolls off his stomach and onto his back, picking up a large envelope. “Huh?” he says.

 “Open it,” Scott says eagerly.

 Stiles raises an eyebrow and sees his name and address printed in a hand written scrawl. He can barely read it himself. “This could be anything,” he points out, kicking off his shoes. Scott tells him to turn the package over and at the lip of the envelope there’s a set of initials. The letters DH are understated and contained and Stiles’ heart expands in anticipation as he tears off the top of the paper.

 Bits of paper seem to fly from its cage and they land all over the floor in Stiles’ haste. Scott snorts and Stiles hurries to pick it all up, mouth dropping open in a gape. “Holy shit. That asshole.”

 He grins when he reaches for his almost flat phone, plugging the black cord in and sinking his butt to the floor. “Hey Stiles,” he hears among the chatter of a few other people. A door clicks shut through the ear piece and then there’s nothing but silence and the sound of Derek’s waiting breath.

 Stiles pauses, not sure what to say. “Do you know how much we’re going to stand out in first class?” he hisses. “I don’t have the clothes for that! I’m poor; they’ll throw me out because my attire is so shit.”

 Derek stops. “You’re going to come?”

“Hell yeah I am,” the statement rips out of him. “Scott too. That is, I’m assuming the other ticket is for him.”

 “Yeah,” Stiles can almost hear the smile on Derek’s lips.

 “So two plane tickets, two concert tickets to your show, and two backstage passes,” he counts it on his fingers, all sorts of images of seeing Derek in his element passing through his mind in a blur. He’s seen some of the videos from when he first figured out Derek’s fame, where he wore tight pants and cradled his instrument. Stiles wants to see that in the flesh.

 “It’s the last show. There’s a special guest. Uh, that’s supposed to be a surprise. Don’t tell anyone,” Derek says hastily.

 “Who?” Stiles asks eagerly.

 “Jennifer Blake.”

 Scott’s mouth drops open, hearing the words easily. “Will we get to meet her? Ask him,” he casts the rest of the papers aside, excitement pooling in his eyes. Stiles tries to bat him away with his hand, time spent speaking with Derek a precious thing, but Scott is insistent. The prospect of meeting someone so wonderful and beautiful is causing his eyes to glaze over. Stiles isn’t sure that the singer should meet such an enthusiastic fan.

 Stiles asks. Derek says yes, voice dropping into a small well of disappointment that Stiles is more excited for the star than for him. “For Scott,” Stiles says with a smirk. “I don’t really care. Do you have your own dressing room?”

 “In theory.”

 “Huh?”

 “Well, my backup singers and my sister have kind of commandeered it. Apparently I wasn’t sociable enough for them so they just came and hung out with me,” Derek says, his words dipped in stiff annoyance. Stiles chuckles.

 “That puts some options to get you alone out the window, but I’ll forgive you,” he grins. He doesn’t fucking care if he has to strip Derek down in a bathroom as long as he can get his hands on him.

 On the other side of the line Derek’s vocal chords are still. He could be outside; the small whip of the wind against the speaker creating easily heard bursts of static. Stiles’ mind drifts off easily and he rests his head on the edge of the bed with a satisfied chuckle. Scott gives him a dirty look.

 “Uh,” Derek says, struggling. Stiles lets out a sound of encouragement, tries to tease the words out of Derek until he abruptly hisses at him. “Don’t do that, there are people inside I have to go talk to soon.”

 “Don’t do what?” Stiles says in an innocent voice.

 There’s a beat of silence. “When you get here, I’m sure you can find some creative ways to get me alone. You’ll have all night for two months to think about it. Two months. Then you have the two hours while I’m on stage, getting hot and sweaty under those lights.”

 Stiles scowls, toes curling against the floor. Maybe Scott can hear Derek through the speaker because he shakes his head in disgust, groans, and chooses that moment to leave the dorm in his socks.

 “It helps that your backstage pass has just as much clearance as my sister’s,” Derek points out. “So I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

 He licks his lips, pondering. Stiles is going to have so much time for pondering. The thought sneaks up on him  and before he can help himself his mouth opens, a frustrated whine not far away. “You know, I can’t do shit like this for you. I can’t fly you across the country or let you meet cool celebrities or even write you some song. I don’t – I don’t have that talent. I don’t know what I can give you.”

 Derek exhales. “Stiles, you give me a fucking lot, okay? I’ll tell you when I see you because right now I have to go. If I can, I’ll try and see you before that? I know two months is a long time but I’ll try and figure something out. Peter is hard to work around.”

 “Okay,” says Stiles in a small voice.

 “And I’d be stupid not to use the money I have to see you, and then I might as well make it a comfortable ride. I also,” Derek pauses. “I want you to see me perform. I’d like that.”

 Stiles nods and realises that Derek’s waiting on a thin stretch of silence. Over on Scott’s bed are the tangible papers of plans, of meeting, of things working out and not being left to the breeze. He feels like they’re taking a step forward, even if it’s a long time away. He nods again. “Yeah. I, of course. I want to see you up there too.”

 “Don’t get jealous,” Derek warns him. “By the end of the night I get more than my fair share of girls’ bras.”

 “People actually do that?”

 “Yeah they do – two seconds – yes, Peter, I’m coming,” there’s a hint of a growl through the yell. “Sorry, Stiles, I have to go. I’ll call you later, maybe?”

 “Text first. We’re hardly ever free at the same time,” Stiles says.

 “Sure,” Derek replies, the call cutting off there. Stiles resists the urge to hold the phone to his chest, to cling onto Derek’s voice in the now, for him, against his ear. He misses it too much already and awkwardly he gets to his feet and swings open the dorm door where he guesses his friend will be.

 Scott’s sitting on the floor, back against the opposite wall and playing on his phone. He looks up when he loses a life. “I forgot my shoes.”

 “Yeah, I don’t know if I’ve got my footing either,” Stiles sighs.

*

 He isn’t sure how long he can bring himself to wait for Derek; the passing dates on his calendar blurring the more tired his eyes gets. It’s as if he has been designed to feel his problems like pinpricks dotted all over his skin, never leaving his head as they make their place there. Stiles knew what he was getting into, being apart, but it wasn’t like before because now his hope has swelled to the point of no return. Every phone call, every text makes his heart ooze in feeling, and there are enough and at the same time there aren’t.

 Scott drags him out to a few parties, buys him his drinks if he’s feeling particularly generous. He happily catches Stiles’ eye whenever a remixed song of Derek’s makes its way to the speakers. This is what college is for, Stiles decides, doing work and letting loose every once in a while. Mostly, he tries to have fun, tries to keep his thoughts healthy. Having Scott there helps.

 The next morning he wakes up groggy, the four walls of his room almost caving in on him. His hair is a mess, standing at all ends as Stiles stares at his own reflection, glad there’s no one to impress in the morning. Scott is drooling on the pillow his arms are cradling, and Stiles would snicker but he has half a mind to collapse again and do that same thing. He has two Friday class on his timetable that stops him throwing himself at his bed.

 He showers, lets the steam press against his body and afterwards he drags his feet over the floor with a hand clutching his towel around his hips. He searches for clothes among the cascade of his and Scott’s mess, his hand snatching a clean shirt just as there’s a rough tap against the door.

 “Two seconds!” he calls out. The knocking becomes more insistent, like the beating of rain against glass, and Stiles figures it will probably wake Scott up. He stomps to the door, damp towel still clinging to his body and he greets his visitor with an irritated look.

 “Stiles!” Laura says. His jaw drops and the towel almost goes loose when he tries to hold it tighter. Her eyes flick downwards and she huffs. “Derek will be pleased,” she says, looking up. “Lucky he didn’t come to the door or you might be pinned down right about now.”

 He flushes, the red spreading down past his exposed collarbones. “Laura,” his voice rings out awkwardly. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Stiles tries to keep his glancing to a minimum but it’s painfully clear who he’s looking for behind Laura’s shoulders.

She smiles. “You, sir, have not been answering your phone. Derek’s worried. He dragged me half way across the country to see you.”

 “He did? Is he here? Wait, he’s worried?” Too many thoughts dance in his brain, the possibility of seeing Derek creating a buzzing rhythm that doesn’t quite drown out the panic he thinks he should feel.

 Laura shrugs. “Come on, we really don’t have all day. We’re not supposed to be here.”

 It doesn’t take him very long to get dressed. Laura waits outside after getting an eyeful of Scott sleeping in his underwear and by the time they leave she is eager to get away from two guys in their natural habitat. He follows Laura out into the sunshine, a small jump in his step despite the fact he’s going to be missing two classes.

 Around the corner is a black car with tinted windows, a hired driver waiting with the engine still running in a soft tremble, much like the quivering mess of his heart. Laura’s hand rests on the door handle as she turns her hips to look at Stiles.

 “Don’t be surprised if he’s being difficult,” she warns him. “Everything’s fine.”

 Stiles nods, realising he needed the assurance. He takes a breath.

 “Hey,” Stiles croaks as he climbs into the car. Derek’s chin gives a sharp turn and wide eyes meet his, searching his face for something. The corner of Stiles’ lips tilt upwards, a slight smile present even though there’s a shadow of worry sprinkling Derek’s features. Stiles just wants to touch him. “What’s up?” he manages to ask, tilting his head to the side.

“Your phone,” Derek says eventually, following a swallow. “I called you. A lot.”

 Stiles frowns. He doesn’t have it with him now, the pulsing beat of his heart in his head enough to make him forgetful. Derek casts his gaze away, unwilling to look at Stiles, body rigid and curved inwards like he’s afraid to lose something.

 Stiles hears a sigh of exasperation from the front seat at the muddled silence, and takes it as a cue to continue, to prod. “Derek?” he asks, pushing his fingers across the middle of the seat. He tries to work himself past the boundary that Derek has carefully set up, trying not to get frustrated that he hasn’t seen Derek in so long, wants to sigh against him but instead the world is trying to make him guess what’s wrong.

“So, you haven’t heard?” he says in a small voice. He looks a little scared.

 “Heard about what?” Stiles says,

 Derek remains silent. Stiles’ tongue twists inside his mouth and a twitch of disappointment peters through him.

 “We’re here,” Laura says. “We’ve got one of the back rooms, I called ahead.”

 Her seatbelt clicks and soon the sound of traffic floats between the cavity of the car when she climbs out. Stiles waits for Derek, tries to catch his eye to give him an encouraging smile. Derek’s lips are perched in a small frown, shoulders caved forward as he reaches for something by his feet.

 Stiles snorts. “Seriously? You’re going in that? That isn’t going to do anything to hide your identity, buddy; screaming for attention is more accurate!” Derek ignores him as he shoves on some sunglasses and wraps a scarf around his neck. “You’ve still got your trademark leather jacket on,” Stiles points out, trying not to laugh.

 Derek narrows his eyes at him from behind the dark frames and a small chuckle plays on Stiles’ chest as they leave the car. He can feel the frustration growing off Derek, can see him wanting to bite back at the taunt but Derek lets it pass by. Stiles sighs.

 He and Laura go through the front entrance and he feels a little out of place with his simple shirt and tight jeans. Their waiter beams at them, ushering the two of them through with attentive smiles. Stiles takes in the impressive artwork, the smooth panels of wood and the fancy decor as they are lead to a private room, hidden by a glass frosted door.

They fold into it, taking seats opposite each other, and he finally makes eye contact with Laura. She rolls her eyes. “Relax, it’ll be fine. He’s working himself up over nothing.” A minute later Derek arrives and hovers at the edge of the table, fingers pressed gently on the wooden surface. Stiles smirks when he realises he’s left the scarf behind.

 “Derek,” Laura says to her brother’s scowl. “I’m sure Stiles will understand.”

 They seem to have another one of their silent wars, the soldiers of exasperation and frustration playing hard against each other. Stiles watches in amusement, their interaction continuing as Laura gets up and shoves Derek in the seat opposite Stiles before planting her body next to him so he can’t escape.

 “Well what am I supposed to say?” he mutters over the carafe and candle.

“You were the one who wanted to come out here,” she snaps back, opening her menu. They continue to bicker in violent whispers and Stiles sits back and glares. So far Derek has just been cold; distant though he’s right in front of him. The bickering of siblings is only going in circles.

“You know,” says Stiles somewhat awkwardly, trying to say anything at all. “I can’t afford a fancy as restaurant with private rooms.” They break their battle to give him a look.

 “What?” Stiles says with a sly grin, happy he’s distracted him. “Derek’s been pretty clear about spending money on me.”

 “Really Derek?” says Laura with yet another sigh. “You could burn half your money and it wouldn’t mean anything.”

 “It means something when people would rather your wallet than you,” he snaps at her like she should know, dark brows knotting closely together.

 “Yes,” says Laura, her light voice forced. “But Stiles isn’t like that, is he?”

 “Oh, I don’t know,” Stiles says with a pout. “There’s this new x box game that I want.”

 Derek folds his arms and stares moodily at his open menu, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “I paid you enough in tips for that,” he mutters.

 “Not as much as you gave Isaac,” he retorts, and yes, he can still be bitter about that. Derek rolls his eyes.

 “You tried to court him in tips?” asks Laura. She looks unimpressed.

 Derek tries to protest but their waiter arrives, cheeks flushing when they recognise Derek. They give their stilted orders and as soon as the door presses shut again Stiles has to drop the issue on the table with a heavy weight.

“Okay, is everything okay? This is getting kind of ridiculous.”

 “I don’t know how to explain,” Derek admits.

 “We’ll show him,” Laura says, sliding out of her seat. Derek’s mouth opens to stop her but it clenches tight again, fingers coming back to his chest. The silence is maddening once she’s gone, and Stiles supposes that for someone that surrounds themselves with music that it must be worse for Derek. He shifts his weight, trying not to feel the brush of knees underneath the small width of the table.

 He leans forward, biting his lip. “Derek, just forget about it until your sister comes back. I haven’t seen you in ages.” He carefully nudges the edge of Derek’s leg with his ankle, offering a few seconds of a comforting rub before pulling away. He watches carefully as Derek freezes at Stiles’ hidden touch, but within a heartbeat he relaxes again, leaning forward and dipping his head as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

 “Fuck, I missed you, Stiles,” he says in a whisper. They have not yet graduated to eye contact so Stiles lets himself stare shameless at Derek’s face, at his trimmed stubble and at the nervous flutter of eyelashes. Derek’s eyes dart quick over the table and at Stiles’ open palm placed carefully at the halfway mark.

 He deliberates, but it’s then when Laura bursts into the room and without looking at her brother she slams down a magazine before Stiles. The table wobbles a little at her force and she slides next to Derek again to keep him prisoner. His face flushes and his hands move out to snatch, but Stiles is quicker.

 “Stiles, the pictures, they’re not. The angles are funny. They don’t mean anything,” his words scrape at the air.

 Stiles wishes he had some warning, thinks it would’ve been fair and an easy thing to give. It might have sedated a rippling side of jealously or loosened the coils of anger behind Stiles’ ribcage. If Derek had talked, maybe it would’ve taken Stiles less by surprise.

 But Derek’s worry begins to make sense. Stiles’ eye flit over the screaming titles of headlines, of pinks, purples and oranges; of blurred and blown up pictures. There’s Jennifer Blake, the critically successful artist, and Derek looks more than a little friendly with her. His brain tries to make sense of the snappy headline but it doesn’t quite want to, so he flips open the pages. It all falls to Jennifer Blake up close and personal, front pressed against Derek’s back, lips by his ear as if exchanging a secret. They’ve just exited a silver car.

 There are other shots too, of them in other places, always close. Always one of them laughing.   _Is it love?_ the headlines read. Stiles tries to think, tries to process it.

 “They’re lies,” Derek whispers opposite him, and slowly Stiles nods. He believes him. With a shaky breath he lets the magazine fall to the table and he can see the tension slip out of Derek’s body. Stiles still can’t look at it though, can’t look at the touches the photos imply, so he flips the page over.

 What he finds makes his mind halt in confusion before his heart drops. He feels sick. There’s a picture of Derek shirtless, his tattoo showing, his pants slipping off his hips. It’s not a photo shoot. There’s a wide heading about his body, about his arms, about some kind of rating. How fuckable he is, though the magazine’s words are only slightly more tasteful. His love life is questioned, who he’s dated, those he’s probably slept with. And it’s supposed to be funny but to Stiles it falls flat when they ask how good he’d be in bed, though, he might leave you there and never look back the next morning.

 It’s sick.

 The mindless editors, the readers, they don’t care about the rest of him, about the human behind the words and photographs, about the human behind the stretch of skin. Stiles hesitates. “Do they always do this?”

 Laura scoffs. “I wonder why that page got your attention.”

 Stiles ignores her. “Why do they treat you like this? Is it all the time?”

 Derek shrugs and Laura silences when her brother squirms. “I’m fine. I’m used to it.” Stiles has to slam the magazine shut and he puts it on his front, hiding everything. It’s disgusting, and he never wants to be privy to the workings of a gossip magazine again.

 Stiles falters, his mind tripping through the darkness of his memories. “I didn’t, I didn’t,” he blushes. He so did. He had fantasised, he had admired, and he had let his eyes wander frequently and without much abandon. Back then he hadn’t known Derek very well at all. “Did I?” He says in a small voice.

 Derek’s answering smile does not reach his eyes. “No more than I did.” Stiles hides his face in his hands and Laura turns her body away. He lets out a groan, his blood heating up his skin, and now he’s the one who doesn’t want to make eye contact, who feels hideous for even thinking about Derek’s body without thinking much about the rest of him.

 “Stiles, it’s okay.”

 “No it’s not. I practically stalked you!” he hisses, peering between his fingers. He’s can’t quite believe he’s actually saying this, actually admitting to it when there were other problems at hand. Other problems he can totally let go, because he believes that Derek had no involvement with Jennifer Blake. If the magazines are this bad, then a projected relationship about them is not a far stretch.

 “Stiles.”

 “And you said, I mean, look how many people want to fuck you just because. I mean, I used to want to fuck you, I mean, I still do, but arrgh. You’re really good looking. I’m sorry. I’m sorry if my intentions were ever questionable, because you were a dick and I still wanted,” he gestures with his hands at Derek’s body, his tongue forming words without him quite wanting it to. “They’re not questionable now, I promise.”

 He moves to cover his face again and he doesn’t quite hear Derek’s exasperated sigh. “Stiles. There was a reason I came to that coffee shop all the time, more than because it was quiet. Honestly, I’m a musician. I live for the noise. You were – are – very nice to look at too.”

 Stiles lets out a whimper and finally drops his hands. “I guess you were more of an infuriating mystery now that I think about it. That’s probably why I was so attracted to you then.”

 Derek chuckles.

 “So I wasn’t the only one being a creep?”

 “Definitely not,” Laura pipes up. Stiles breathes.

 “And the photos?” Derek asks in a quiet voice.

 “I believe you,” Stiles says firmly.

 “See Derek?” Laura squeezes his arm. “Told you it would be fine.”

 He rolls his eyes in return, scooting forward on the plush seat. Derek’s knees bang into Stiles’ and this time they stay there. They both smile at the warmth, and the excitement of Derek being here builds in crescendo. The food arrives and Laura’s phone is placed on the edge of the table, a silent reminder of the little time they have.

 The flow of conversation is warm, easy, but it’s mostly Laura and Stiles who speak. Derek seems to be comfortable letting the talk act as a kind buzz, looking at Stiles, letting their ankles cross under the table. Stiles licks his fingers, swipes the remains of the pasta sauce into his mouth while Derek stares at him. He grins, tracing his tongue along his lips to get at the flavour.

 The phone soon vibrates. It sends shivers into the table and the Hales place their cutlery to their plates and stare at it with guilty expressions. Stiles eyes the two, watches how Derek shifts in his seat and takes a sip of his water. They wait it out.

 It rings again.

 “You can answer it, you know,” Stiles points out.

 “Fine,” Derek grumbles.

 Laura’s fingers swipe against the phone and she puts it to speaker phone. “Hi Peter,” they both say.

 There’s a brief pause from the other end at the surprise of actually being answered before a sharp, scratchy sound fills their private room. Stiles winces.

 “ _You two need to get your asses back to where they’re meant to be before I send someone over to kill you! I don’t care, Derek,”_ he sneers, “ _if you let your sister indulge you in whatever’s going on in that head of yours. You can’t just leave a note when you have things to do. If it’s anything to do with that boy, I will think of very colourful ways of threatening you. I am sick of hearing about him if you can’t do your job properly._ ”

 Stiles’ eyebrows climb higher the longer the voice carries on.

 “I don’t talk about him to you,” Derek assures Stiles over the table through clenched teeth.

 “ _IS HE THERE?”_

 _“_ Hi Peter,” says Stiles, trying to hide back a snigger.

 “ _Hello_ ,” he says nastily. “ _I’m sure Derek didn’t need to go all the way over there to explain about some photos, did he? I don’t want to hear any more about you distracting Derek from his work, do you hear me? Or you and I will have to have a little chat_.”

 Laura sighs. “Relax, Peter. We’ll be on the next flight over. It leaves in an hour; we’ve already got tickets and we’ve checked in. Derek will be there in time for whatever you’ve got scheduled.”

 “ _It’s a very important interview. Ms Blake will be there_ ,” he adds. Stiles’ lip curls. While he may trust Derek, he doesn’t exactly trust her.

 “Anyway,” Laura says over him. “You should be nicer to Stiles. If it weren’t for him Derek would still be wallowing in misery and wouldn’t be writing anymore.”

 “ _Yes_ ,” sneers Peter. “ _Thank you, Stiles. Thank you for distracting my client sufficiently that he decides cross country is the best way to solve his problems_.”

 “Peter,” interrupts Stiles.

 “ _What_?”

 “Do you have a favourite song of Derek’s? Any one of them?”

 There’s a beat as Derek’s manager tries to find the trick in the question. He doesn’t find it. “ _What’s that got to do with anything_?”

 “Personally,” Stiles says, grinning at Derek. “I quite like this one,” he begins to hum it. It’s the same one Derek said was written about Peter and Derek bursts out laughing. His whole body shakes the table and glass against china clinks. His blinding grin is enough for Stiles to stare goofily back.

 “ _Be_ _there_ ,” Peter snarls at them before hanging up.

 “What’s so funny?” asks Laura, watching her brother’s dying chuckles with suspicion. She looks over at Stiles whose grin is just as wide.

 Derek shakes his head and waves his hand at her. “Go pay the bill.” His eyes darken and turn to Stiles. “You, come here. Please,” he adds.

 Laura grudgingly leaves, and with a nervous smile Stiles rises from his side of the table to Derek’s opening arms. Their thighs press together and Stiles places a hand on Derek’s chest, revelling in the warmth coming through the shirt, wanting to be touched.

 “How long does it take to pay the bill?” Stiles asks.

 Derek cups his face, lets his thumb drag over Stiles’ lower lip. He presses a warm kiss to red lips before answering in a hushed voice, “If she’s clever it will take her a while.” Stiles' lips spread into a grin and he pulls Derek close again, fingers curling around shoulders. He lets Derek pull him onto his lap. They kiss until Stiles feels like he’s kissing the warm pulse of the sun, sighing into Derek when his mouth moves along Stiles’ jaw and down his neck.

 “That feels good,” he mumbles, feeling Derek’s hot breath roam. Teeth graze against his skin and Stiles wishes they weren’t in some restaurant, that Derek didn’t have to go back, that they could stay with lips to lips forever. Stiles gives Derek a firm push while he straddles him properly, the back of Derek’s head hitting a cushioned wall behind them and exposing the length of his throat. Stiles trails his fingers along, Derek staring up at him through thick eyelashes and a darkened look, like he’s viewing the edge of the universe.

 Stiles is utterly gone, lost in it.

 “I can’t break the contract or I’d stay,” Derek tells him, hands slipping under Stiles’ shirt to burn against his skin.

 “I know. I can’t believe you took me seriously when I asked for a surprise visit,” manages Stiles. “Next time you should stay longer, spend the night in a hotel instead of staying in my crappy dorm room.”

 “Okay,” Derek says and he surges forward again, clinging himself to Stiles as their lips collide. Laura will be there soon, and they’re out of breath, still trying to map out each other’s mouths, still trying to just hold each other in their fever.

 There’s a knock on the frosted door and with a whine they part, Stiles slipping off Derek’s thighs and pressing their sides against each other instead. His hair probably looks like a mess. When Laura enters, Derek still has a hand on his leg and she looks surprised that they could exercise some restraint.

 “I paid,” she says.

 Derek nods.

 “We need to go.”

 Stiles frowns but tries to hide it. “Where’d you put your ridiculous scarf?” he says instead of pleading for Derek to stay. “You’re going to need it.”

 Derek nudges him in the side and they slip out of the seat, Derek pressing himself to Stiles’ back for as long as possible. “See you at my show?” he murmurs into Stiles ear when they have to leave for good.

 “Definitely.”

 He grins at Stiles as he puts on his sunglasses, teeth flashing in the light. Stiles laughs and gives a half hearted wave. From here, they’ll go their way and he’ll go his, back to his dorm and ready to share his morning with Scott. His lips feel deliciously numb as he climbs up the stairs, and he could go to his last class of the day but he doesn’t. He listens to Derek’s music instead.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I don't post this now it will never get posted, so sorry if there are any mistakes. 
> 
> Impromptu visits! Yay:)
> 
> I had some problems with Stiles' behavior in the first chapter or so that I thought the fic needed to address. Derek was a dick too, but I feel like that was talked about more? I don't know. But it's nice for Derek being reassured that Stiles cares about more than that. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and for any comments. :)
> 
> Here's my [tumblr](http://matildajones.tumblr.com).


	9. Chapter 9

 

 Scott looks him dead in the eye. “You’re going. I’ll help. I promise not to distract you, or let yourself be distracted, and I’m only saying this because you’re going to drive me crazy if you don’t see your boy toy and you start moping around the place even more than you do now.”

 Stiles gives him a dirty look, the momentary flash of irritation covering the dread he feels. He’s already spoken to Derek and he flushes when he remembers Derek’s voice; small and tight. He’d promised he’d make it if he could, resenting his professors for giving him so much work to do inside a week.

 It’s hard not to feel like Derek’s slipping between his fingers as he said he understood. The quiet had flooded in again and Stiles buries his face in his hands as he remembers the silence, avoiding Scott’s pitiful look.

 “Alright,” says Scott. “You’re starting now.”

 “I can’t do it!” Stiles wails, spinning around on his computer chair. “It’s too much!”

 “Email your course co-ordinator and see if you can hand in the assignment early,” his friend’s voice is bright, yet somehow punishing.

 Stiles nods miserably, his body sighing as he pulls out his papers.

>> 

 The words he has written swim in front of him. “I need motivation, buddy,” Stiles says to him, voice bland.

 “Uh,” Scott’s scrambling around the room, getting ready to go out and leave Stiles to his academic doom. “First class plane tickets?” Stiles makes a non – committal sound. “Really good concert tickets? Derek?”

 “That’s a good one,” Stiles admits, rubbing his eyes.

 Scott pauses, hands patting down his pockets to make sure he has everything. His face scrunches up for a moment, thoughts leading somewhere he obviously didn’t want to go. Stiles raises an eyebrow.

 “Sex with Derek?” Scott says hurriedly. Stiles darts his tongue out to wet his lips, giving a hard grin to the uncomfortable look on Scott’s face. His eyes start to glaze over, imagining, and Scott frowns. “You, um, I’m going to go. Do your work.”

 “You brought it up!” Stiles yells after him. He flexes his fingers and the sound of his knuckles cracking gives him an extra jolt of energy.

 Before he knows it, the space outside the glass window is a pooling black. Scott comes in with a dopey expression on his face, words slightly slurred as he dumps a cup of coffee and a generously sized sandwich on Stiles’ desk. Stiles offers his thanks, the steam of the coffee warming his cheeks. He sighs when Scott pulls off his shirt and allows himself to simply crash. The sound of Scott’s snores is not something he normally envies.

 The morning comes quickly. Scott has already packed Stiles’ bag for the airport and the resounding click of the mouse when he presses the submit button leaves a victorious silence through the dorm. Stiles stares at the screen, his reflection showing the red lines through his eyes as he can’t quite believe it’s over.

 “Is it done?” asks Scott impatiently. Stiles nods and suddenly a hand yanks his arm, pulling Stiles to his feet and out the door. Their shoes scuff against the ground in their effort to get to the airport on time, the caffeine still playing a number on his heart by the time they get to the gate.

 “We made it?” asks Stiles weakly.

 Scott grins at him.

>> 

 Stiles and Scott have missed the opening act. What’s more is that they have missed Jennifer Blake performing, but it wasn’t as if they had tried to see her. Once in the air Stiles’ mind was a fold of darkness as his consciousness temporarily removed itself from the world. He was exhausted.

 At the hotel they had managed to waste a lot of time, fretting when their booking couldn’t be found. Stiles was worried that Derek had lost all hope in them turning up and removed their booking but eventually they got led to a room the size of a small apartment, apologies on the staff member’s lips.

 The lights have twisted into black, the growing thud of drums and the audience’s cheers moving through the floor. Stiles has to blink more than once to take it all in; the flash of lights in his tired eyes enough to send him dizzy, but if anything it’s kind of surreal having the beat take over his pulse.

 Next to him Scott is grinning, passes around their necks carefully hidden away. Stiles has seen one too many movies where those have gone missing. They’re fairly close to the stage, Derek’s prime tickets allowing it, but they’re still lost in a sea of people and Stiles isn’t really wearing anything to make him scream out of the crowd.

 But the view of Derek is clear.

 The first time he comes out on stage there’s a fog tracing his every step until Derek’s calm stare takes in the crowd. The screams are deafening. Stiles licks his lips, wanting. It’s painfully frustrating being this close to Derek, hearing his voice as he addresses his fans with a disarming smile, and not actually having him.

 Scott nudges him. “It’s just a couple of hours, just watch him perform.”

 Stiles lets himself grin back, and begins to whoop with the rest of the crowd.

>> 

 Derek clears his throat over the microphone and like a wave, the sound of the arena dims. Stiles watches how Derek sits on a stool, guitar on his knee and thighs spread so that the seam of his dark jeans are showing. It’s a tempting sight, and the rest of the room knows it. Stiles bites the inside of his mouth to tone down the jealousy that he probably shouldn’t be feeling, aware that Derek would most likely tease him for it if he knew anything about it.

 Derek grins at the crowd, plucking a few notes of his own guitar. The lights have dipped so that only the silhouettes of his band are showing, leaving Derek essentially alone on the stage. “We normally have another song in this set,” he starts in a low voice, peering up at the crowd, smiling at a few he catches the eye of. Stiles is close enough to see the stubble. “My backup singer Erica is unwell and she features on that track.”

 There’s a collective sound of disappointment and Derek nods and waits. “Can you guys keep a secret?”

 A deafening roar meets Derek and Stiles can see the smirk. He has them eating out of the palm of his hand; voice low and captivating and Stiles is not immune. “Alright,” says Derek. “There’s someone who couldn’t make it out here tonight that I wanted to play a song for. To be honest, I probably wouldn’t be playing it if they were here. Shall I show you guys what they’re missing? Sing it for you instead?” The crowd screams. “It will have to be our secret. Do you guys think you can keep it a secret?”

 Scott has burst out laughing beside Stiles and beside them a couple of fans have given them dirty looks. Stiles’ own mouth has dropped wide open, taking in Derek, wondering what song he’s going to play, hoping that it is actually going to be meant for him and that Derek’s not just stringing the crowd for some effect. To be liked. For entertainment.

 He plays a cover.  It’s ‘ _Here without you,’_ by 3 Doors Down, all pronouns changed so that it’s clear Derek’s not singing about the backup singer who couldn’t make it.

 “Fucker,” manages Stiles when the last notes fade into the applause and screams. “Look at him with that smug smile – he knows exactly what he’s doing to them.”

 Scott rolls his eyes and squeezes Stiles’ shoulder. “And to you,” he yells over the crowd.

 It’s too much time before Stiles can see Derek properly, and not enough for him to keep watching Derek on the stage. His body is still, yet at ease, like the stage is moulded to him. It’s a castle of bright lights that Derek can control and it’s completely different to the musician Stiles has seen so far. He still thinks Derek alone in his living room is a beautiful sight, and perhaps Stiles prefers it, but there is no denying Derek is good at what he does.

>> 

The look the security guard gives him in full of apprehension, thick eyebrows folding over Stiles’ pass until his tired eyes hollow out in annoyance. Scott stands next to him with a pleasant look on his face, peering gently over the man’s shoulder in excitement before they hear a sigh and they’re escorted through the door.

 “Who are you here to see?” The guard asks again.

 “Derek Hale,” Scott replies chirpily, gripping at Stiles’ elbow and pulling him forward. “You know Stiles, this would’ve been so much easier if you had remembered to text him.”

 Stiles looks at the ground sheepishly, the further they had walked past black metal beams and speakers the more nervous he got. God, seeing him, hearing that song, the surprise of it. His body is thrumming with anticipation, and he hopes he hasn’t ruined it, hopes that Derek isn’t mad at him for turning up anyway. Stiles thinks back to the song, thinks back to how much he wants to drag Derek to a bed and press their bodies together.

 “Well,” says the man, his bald head reflecting the light. “You can go wherever you want, really. If those are fake I’m going to lose my job so don’t do anything stupid, okay?” Scott nods at him but at that moment his mouth drops open and he shakes Stiles’ arm mindlessly.

 “Dude, look! That’s Jennifer Blake!”

 Stiles’ eyes snap up, taking in the curtain of dark hair. Immediately, a twitch of rage fires up at him and she’s the first person to spot them. Her smile comes with calculating eyes as she approaches them, asking them if they’re part of the competition winners.

 “Sure,” Stiles replies, eyeing her body up and down. She’s wearing leather pants and a white, crisp blouse. They follow her into the next room where there’s a huddle of excited people clutching at each other. They almost squeal when they see her and Stiles rolls his eyes.

 He leans over to Scott. “I want to see Derek,” Stiles tells him, but he gives up when Scott’s eyes stay on the apparent celebrity in front of him. At least Stiles can see the conflict in his friend’s eyes, the battle between admiring someone and hating them on your friend’s behalf.

 “Are you really dating Derek Hale?” a fan asks, once the crowd has dispersed a little.

 “When is he going to get here?” Stiles says instead.

 Jennifer smirks. “Patience. And no, we’re not,” she says with a sickly sweet voice. “But he _is_ rather fine and the rumours are good for business.”

 Stiles glares at her. Scott is the one to open his mouth. “So you just let them take those photos so you could get more publicity!”

 She shrugs, and the fan she is talking to looks disappointed. “I thought it would’ve been romantic. You guys look good together.” Stiles snorts and Jennifer narrows her eyes, a flicker of something else emerging from her pupils.

 Scott drags him away. “Have you texted his sister?”

 “Laura?” he frowns, and now they’re out in the corridor, waiting in a corner by some random instruments. They keep their passes wrapped securely around their necks, Stiles clutching his own because right now he’s aching for Derek.

 Scott nods. “Yeah.”

 “I never told you this, but she’s seen you in your underwear,” Stiles lets him know before he taking his phone out of his pocket. Scott groans next to him and tries to jab Stiles in the ribs before the motion turns into something else.

 The hold on his phone loosens, its gravity almost pulling it from his fingers as Stiles glances up. He takes a hesitant step forward and it’s very clear when Derek first notices him. His step stops half way, long fingers curled around a clear water bottle and his gaze becomes as still as his body. Stiles hazards a smile, a half wave of sorts and suddenly a deep blush moves over Derek’s cheeks.

 Scott snorts and shoves Stiles forward.

 There’s a slight bustle of movement around them as the crew packs things away already. Their eyes glance over at the pair but for the most part he and Derek are ignored. He can hear the thudding of his heart in his ears and the corners of Derek’s lips are raised like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing, and the hope of contact runs near.

 “You look tired,” is what the man blurts out.

 Stiles rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t lying when I said I had a lot of assignments and shit to do.”

 “I know,” Derek says quickly.

 “I already met Jennifer,” Stiles tells him, and the burn under his ribs soothes when Derek’s face turns into a grimace of irritation.

 “And what do you think of her?”

 “I like you a lot better.”

 Derek scuffs his toes along the floor so that there’s only a small gap between them. Stiles rocks forward on his and their knuckles brush over each other. “I wouldn’t have sung that song if I knew you were coming,” Derek says in a rush, ducking his head before replacing it with what could be an embarrassed scowl, but Stiles isn’t sure.

 “Oh,” he says, voice small. “Were, were you just putting on a good show then? It’s okay if you didn’t really mean it, I mean, you were stringing your audience along a lot – you’re surprisingly charming on stage.”

 Derek lets out a hiss of exasperation. “ _Stiles_. Of course I meant it,” he lowers his voice. “I wouldn’t have sung it otherwise.”

 Stiles’ face splits into a grin. “Good. I uh, I missed you too.”

 He can see Derek rolling his eyes; can see how his lips move to say something else, something more, before there’s a huff next to them and a young woman dressed solely in black comes around. “Oh good! There you are Derek, the fans are waiting for you-” she sees Stiles next to him, “oh, is this?” she stops, but the lady is giving the two fond looks before going back to business. “I can take him to your sister?”

 Derek nods at her. “Thank you.” He takes Stiles’ hand to give it a brief squeeze and he sends Scott a nod when he notices him in the corner.  Stiles follows the trail of Derek’s path as he walks into the room with the fans; staring after him until the last swish of his leather jacket disappears behind the door.

 >>

 “Stiles!” says a bright voice in surprise. Within seconds he’s being enveloped by Laura for a tight, quick hug. She pulls back. “You made it!”

 He smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry about, you know.”

 Laura waves him off. “Have you seen Derek? He’s been moping about all week.”

 Scott laughs.

 Laura drags them around a corner and into a dressing room, mirrors coating the walls with bright lights dotted around the frame. There are costume changes being packed away, the remains of sweets and chocolates in a glass bowl. Several figures are packed together on the couch, laughing and looking tired.

 Stiles can almost feel Laura’s fingernails digging through his sleeve as she brings him to a stop in front of the crowd. “This is Stiles,” she lets her eyebrows climb up and down her forehead and there’s a collective exhale of recognition around the room. “And this is his friend Scott.”

 Scott gives an easy grin and plops himself on the edge of the couch, leaving Stiles to the handful of Derek’s obvious friends.

 “So this is..?” The voice trails off but there’s a mischievous grin to the end of it when Laura nods, smirking.

 “You look exhausted,” another comments, but they too, are exchanging looks of clear amusement. Stiles doesn’t know if he’s being made fun of or if Derek is. He assumes it’s the latter.

 “I really do like the person who makes Peter angry,” says a girl with red hair. “It’s my main source of entertainment these days.”

 Startled, Stiles looks over at Laura. He’s not sure he can manage meeting Peter with only a couple of hours of sleep under his belt. She smirks back at him. “He’s already left; you’ll be pleased to know.”

 He falls into an easy pattern with them, all waiting for Derek to return from meeting some fans before heading off to the hotel. They have already had a wrap party, but a few drinks after a long tour won’t go amiss, they claim.

 It feels good, meeting the people Derek spends time with. Stiles doesn’t feel so much like a wisp of cloud, nice to look at for a minute before the wind whips him away. He’s not being hidden either, like some secret central to Beacon Hills.

 It takes a while for him to notice Derek hovering by the door, lip bitten and watching Stiles with eyes hopeful and happy. He forgets the words trailing out of his mouth, his lips spreading into a grin as the two make eye contact and it’s so easy.

 “There we all are!” Laura announces, and the couch groans when everyone rises from it to gather their bags and exit the narrow door frame. They slap Derek on the chest as they pass and Stiles follows the line of people after Scott. Derek catches his arm and lets his fingers drop down to curl around Stiles’ wrist.

 “Hey,” Stiles breathes. “Your friends are cool.”

 “They’re all going to Laura’s room,” Derek answers with a murmur, not bothering to remove his gaze from Stiles. “We can stay a while then go to my room?”

 Stiles nods and Derek fingers catch a little tighter, thumb brushing across knuckles before Derek dips low and presses a hot kiss just under Stiles’ jaw line. He can feel Derek’s breath as he hovers there and Stiles’ eyelids flutter shut. He sways forward, tries to lean into the line of Derek’s body but with a sigh Derek straightens again.

 “I’ll never let you leave if I have you here,” Derek says simply, and it’s all Stiles can do not to groan before following after him. They climb into a car that a few others have already piled into and they end up thigh to thigh, Stiles letting his eyes shut briefly as he leans his head on Derek’s shoulder.

 “How much sleep did you get?” he asks.

 “Not much,” Stiles mumbles, and Derek is so warm, so solid, so _here._

 “Did you like the show?”

 Stiles lifts his head. “Yeah. A lot. You singing about me was pretty cool too.”

 Derek rolls his eyes. “Trust you to focus on that.” But he’s turned his head away, a shade of pink travelling underneath the stubble, easily missed in the darkness of their surroundings.

 For the most part, the two of them are left alone. Derek gets Stiles a drink and they flop onto the couch, Stiles’ back against the arm rest and knees propped up. Derek sits next to him, lets Stiles’ toes press underneath his thighs for warmth and he rests a palm over Stiles’ knee as they talk.

 “Sorry you didn’t get to meet Erica,” Derek tells him. “We’re fairly close.”

 Stiles shrugs. “She’s the one missing out on the Stilinski charm.”

 Derek snorts.

 “Hey!” protests Stiles with a glare. “I can be charming. I charmed you.”

 “Actually,” Laura interrupts, cutting off Derek’s probable denial. “We’re all wondering how you did that, Stiles. Thawed out my darling baby brother’s heart.”

 “I told you,” he repeats. “My charm.”

 “And an uncanny ability not to put up with any of Derek’s shit?” a voice pipes up from across the room. Stiles can hear Scott laugh in return.

 Derek growls. “That’s it, we’re leaving.” He pulls Stiles up by the elbow, keeping him near so that the planes of their back and front align. Stiles is happily escorted from the room, shoes in hand and a slight smirk on his face as he hears Derek muttering behind him. A series of cheers and encouragements follow them and Derek presses gently against Stiles’ back until they arrive at room twenty four.

 It’s much smaller than Laura’s, but the carpet is just as flush underneath his feet and he lets his shoes drop to the ground. The door clicks behind them and the silence is filled by Stiles’ shallow, tired breaths.

 “Want a drink?” Derek asks, eyes growing darker.

 Stiles shakes his head.

 “Good,” is his uttered reply, and then Stiles is being pressed into the wood of the door, a pair of eager lips on his. Stiles runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, sighing into the kiss, clutching greedily at the feel of Derek against him.

 “I can’t believe you’re here,” Derek whispers past his ear, biting down his neck so that Stiles shudders. He’s wanted this for so long and he ignores how exhausted his body is as they make their way to the bed. Stiles gets a flash of Derek’s face before he’s pressed against the mattress; sees his mouth hung open and eyes starry, like he too is lost in a dream.

Derek’s arms bracket Stiles’ head and his tongue dips down; kissing him. His breath catches and soon their legs are tangled together, not an inch of their bodies left untouched. Their movements are slow, languid, and full of small comments about things they haven’t managed to say over the past few months. Stiles smiles against Derek’s lips, lets his hands slip over the fabric of Derek’s shirt to travel down his sides.

They spend what feels like hours moving slowly against each other, it simple and easy and perfect before the kiss gets harder, and Stiles adjusts his knees so that he can grip Derek tighter around the waist with his legs. The more they go on the more the heat builds up, little noises escaping Stiles’ throat, unwilling to sacrifice the feel of Derek’s body over his, heavy and wonderful, for the chance of skin on skin. Derek is the one who caves, sitting bolt right and whipping off his jacket, pulling his shirt over his head.

 Stiles’ eyes burn a darker colour and suddenly it’s a mess of skin and bodies, warm heat and curses, panting, and the breath of names etched against the other’s neck, shoulder, collarbone.

 The energy in Stiles’ bones feels like a collapsing star, burning bright before soft kisses let him fade into sleep.

>> 

 Derek is still sleeping softly when Stiles awakes and he slips away from the warm block of heat to go to the bathroom. The room is chilly, pin pricks of cold coating his bare skin. When he makes it to the bathroom he sees the rough white of his face, curved around like the surface of a sea shell and it’s difficult not to notice his smile in the mirror. Everything is good.

 He tries not to wake Derek when he tiptoes back into the room, collecting his socks and shoving them on his feet. The hard line of Derek’s jaw is angled over the pillows and Stiles’ heart tries not to melt as Derek’s arm swipes the mattress for something that’s not there. Derek begins to sit up.

 “Stiles?”

 “I’m here,” he grins back, and Derek slumps back into the pillows with a groan, hand moving the corner of the sheets down to invite Stiles back into bed. Lines of sunlight through the blinds lie on the edge of Derek’s back and Stiles makes his way over before an insistent buzzing fills the room.

 The ringing of the phone is muted by the piles of fabric covering it, and from the bed Derek grumbles.

 “Can you answer it?”

 Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine,” he says, hands searching for the piece of technology. His hands clasp around it and he swipes his thumb over the edge of the screen.

 Peter’s voice comes through the other end, hardly stopping to greet Derek before carrying on about work and deadlines. Derek sits up properly, eyes trained on the phone before his and Stiles’ gazes meet. They blink at each other, listening to Peter’s faint words.

 “Just hang up,” Derek tells him, and with a grin Stiles does just that.

 “Aren’t you a wonderful client?” Stiles says, falling to his knees at the edge of the mattress. He almost drops the device, the phone circling through the air before his long fingers manage to catch it again. He snorts when he sees the camera function has been activated, lines the lens so that Derek is in frame.

 “Smile for me, Derek, yeah, look at you with your hair all perfect, and oh, those muscles are really quite devastating and yep, that’s a glare.”

 The shutter sound travels through the speakers with each photo taken, and a soft growl erupts from Derek’s throat as he swipes the phone away from Stiles. There’s a dull thud as it falls to the floor and Derek yanks Stiles forward, covers his laugh with his mouth.  Derek tries to hide it, but Stiles can feel the man’s smile against his lips.

>> 

 “If I could write a song for you, I would,” Stiles’ blush sends his chalky white complexion away. Derek’s jaw turns to the side, eyebrow raised as he takes in Stiles’ lowered gaze. They’re standing side by side in the hotel lobby, aware of the strangers around them.

 Derek has been recognised, it’s clear, but no one they don’t know approaches them. The curves of their palms brush against each other, pressing tight when they can find the friction. They had spent the rest of the morning in bed, curled over each other, until the realities of leaving fell over them again.

 “I,” Stiles clears his throat. “I have a lot to say.”

 “You don’t need music, Stiles.”

 He scowls in return. “You like music. I’m trying to talk in a language you might understand.”

 Derek’s lip quirks and he resists when Stiles bats his hand away. “English works perfectly well. I can also speak a bit of Japanese.”

 Stiles’ eyes widen before he takes in a shaky breath. “I’ve said that I miss you, and God, I will. I hate having to leave you again. But, you’re, you’re important to me, okay?”

 Scott bounds up to them then, and suddenly there’s the force to drive Stiles away and take him back to his life. He wishes Derek were more integral to it, that the cool rumble of his voice could be the first thing he hears in the morning, that every night could be like the one they just had.

 Derek’s eyes seem to flicker, scanning over the plane of Stiles’ cheeks until he feels thoroughly examined. Slowly Derek nods, as if believing Stiles were a difficult thing to do, as if he couldn’t possibly expect that someone would want to be around him without wanting to break him. But he does believe, Derek allows himself to, and a small smile emerges from Stiles’ lips; heart swelling when Derek nods before him again.

“Me too,” he says simply, eyes dropping down to Stiles’ mouth again. Scott looks between them awkwardly, aware he’s interrupting something. Derek pulls Scott into a hug, Scott’s smile and body freezing in the process, but then Derek can hold Stiles without any hesitation. Stiles is swept into Derek’s hold, the warm press of his sure body enough to make Stiles sigh.

 They break apart and Stiles grins. He had made it. He had seen Derek, he had been with Derek. “I’ll call you. Don’t let Peter get your phone, heaven knows I am a bad distraction for you and he’s been pretty clear what he thinks of me.”

 “I won’t,” Derek promises, trying not to watch Stiles too much as the boy leaves behind glass doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my friend Elise for finding me a song for Derek to sing. Yes, I looked up the lyrics and there's the L word. 
> 
> I keep on thinking that if I make Stiles do lots of work then maybe I will do my own :/ 
> 
> Thank you to anyone who has made it this far, it means a lot:) I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	10. Chapter 10

 Stiles comes so close to saying those vulnerable and precious words to Derek. It’s late, as always, and it’s been a mad rush of work and group assignments where others haven’t pulled their weight. But here, Derek is on the phone and Stiles can’t help but relax, let his mind wander to when they were together, and he smiles.

 The murmur is on the tip of his tongue and his heart bursts as he wants to tell Derek how he feels. He knows it’s not special over the phone, but he doesn’t care, he _feels_ it. Stiles’ breath catches in his chest as he opens his mouth, ready to break the silence. There’s no question where his heart is.

 “Hey, Stiles,” Derek says with a croak, “I have to go now, you get some sleep okay?”

 Stiles’ face flushes at the interruption of his thoughts, and somehow the moment is gone. “Yeah, okay,” he replies with a swallow. “I’ll text you later.”

 “Don’t work too hard,” Derek tells him and Stiles snorts. “I’ll tell Laura you said hi.”

*

 He doesn’t quite get around to texting Derek as he promised, but once he drags his feet away from the library he manages to collapse on his bed, phone in hand. His fingers fumble and with some atrocious spelling, he flicks a text to Derek. There’s a thick spread of darkness in the sky when Stiles’ blurry eyes finally manage to close.

 As he falls asleep he remembers Derek’s hands on him and wishes he had whispered how much Derek means to him as they fell together. Stiles makes a faint promise to himself to tell Derek whenever he next has the chance. When Stiles wakes there’s not a single text from Derek, but it’s easy to shrug aside with the early rush of morning classes.

 At lunch, there are a few unopened messages from Scott and nothing else. There’s only a small pang in his ribs at the silence, but Derek has so many things to do in his life. Stiles hasn’t exactly sent much to him recently either, but he asks if Derek’s alright and tries to forget about it. It’s only when a week passes that he realises he hasn’t heard from Derek at all in that time.

*

 “Dude,” says Scott. “Why do you keep on staring at your phone?”

 Stiles quickly shoves it into his pocket and scowls at the air. “No reason,” he says sourly, lips twisting around his words. Scott raises his eyebrows but doesn’t press, there a small glimmer of defiance that Stiles knows means his friend is going to bring it up later.

 He tries to come up with reasons for silence but there’s only so far Stiles can go to provide excuses. Yet, in the back of his mind there’s a whisper and a nagging feeling as to how Derek simply might not want him anymore. To the common eye Stiles is inconsequential compared to Derek Hale, and while the rational part of him knows that’s not true, he can still feel the worth sliding off him and onto the floor.

 Stiles knows the hurt wouldn’t be so stabbing if Derek hadn’t seeped into his heart the way music flows into ears. He continues to stare moodily into the distance until Scott snatches his phone away from him and switches it off.

*

  “Why do you like him, Kira?” Stiles asks quietly, shuffling their notes around without a purpose.

 She glances up from her laptop in surprise, looking a bit nervous. “What do you mean? Who?”

 “I mean Derek,” Stiles says and then adds, “Derek Hale.”

 “Oh!” her mouth opens in a round circle before she smiles.

 “Like is it just because he’s attractive or because you think his songs are good?” he asks in a miserable voice, trying to find something good about him to cling onto before his own resentment latches on too strong.

 Kira closes the lid of her laptop and almost beams at Stiles, so much so that he leans away in surprise. “Nah, I don’t want to date him or anything if I had the chance. I just want to be his friend. He’s pretty cool, always good to the fans from what I’ve read and seen. Pretty polite to interviewers, but at the same time doesn’t let any of them get away with crap? Like really doesn’t. Especially after the whole, um, Kate thing.”

 Stiles frowns. Glowing recommendation aside, Derek is being a dick. Again. It has been more than two weeks, so Stiles can’t play the _he is busy_ excuse anymore.

*

 He clears his throat, the soft hum of the ringing phone in his ear. It reaches voicemail and an engaging voice speaks back at him. Stiles’ nostrils flare because he doesn’t want to have to resort to calling Laura, but on the surface he knows he deserves better that what he’s getting.

 “ _Um, hi Laura. It’s Stiles. Haven’t heard from Derek in a while so I’m just wondering how he is and if you could tell him to call me? Maybe he’s busy or something – actually no, fuck that. Laura, can you please tell Derek to stop being so dense or something? He can’t just stop talking to me when he feels like it, I don’t know what’s going on but you’re his older sister; please just knock some sense into him? I’m confused bordering pissed off bordering kinda upset and, uh, thanks. In advance.”_

*

 Stiles gets an answer eventually, but not an answer from Laura. It’s the kind that acts like the force of gravity multiplied by the weight of the universe. He feels like he’s being pulled downwards, everything sinking until he can’t feel much anymore – except how hard he’s pinned to the ground.

 When he hears the song, he can’t breathe. He’s at the library, studying with Kira when she keeps on humming to herself. Her features are relaxed and she looks faintly pleased about everything even though they have masses of research to do.

 “What’s that?” asks Stiles, irritated.

 Kira pulls the headphones out of her ears and Stiles repeats the question.

 “Oh! It’s called _Coffee House_. It’s Hale’s new single,” her eyes buzz with mild excitement and she immediately pushes her ipod out to Stiles. He stares at it with worry, throat closing up. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it, it’s kind of been everywhere.”

 He makes a noise. He’s been busy, especially when he’s not been staring at his phone wondering if Derek would call already.

 Stiles shakes his head at Kira’s outstretched hand. “I have to go,” he says in a strangled voice and Kira’s eyes scan over him at least twice, a wash of concern laced into every lingering glance. In a rush, Stiles picks up his things, promises to meet up with her tomorrow if she wants, and speeds off to his dorm.

 It’s empty, and he fumbles with his phone. Technology works against him in his frenzied state but he finds the single and presses the speaker to his ear.

 It’s a good song.

 It’s about him.

 He collapses on his bed, his skin far too hot, sweat dripping down his back as he can’t not press replay. His breathing is rapid and tears sting at his eyes but Stiles refuses to blink and let them run down his cheeks.

 Derek’s song is full of hurt, full of regret, full of tainted foresight that _this_ wouldn’t end well. It casts Stiles aside; it builds him up and tears him down. Moments in the coffee shop, immortalised. Moments in Stiles’ house, brought under the leering eye of the public.  There are moments where he’s under Derek’s body; followed by moments Stiles didn’t even know existed.

 What did he do? _What the fuck did he do?_ he thinks, almost whimpering out loud as his thumb brushes the burning hot screen to let Derek’s rough voice fill his ears again. God, it’s like an anthem for hating on Stiles, full of moments far too specific for Stiles’ liking without actually admitting to being about him.

 The music is not silence. He’s not sure what he likes better.

*

  _I don’t understand_ , he texts Laura. That’s all he says.

*

 Scott finds him draped over his bed, staring at the ceiling dejectedly.

 “Dude, Kira found me, she’s real nice by the way, and she said you didn’t look so fine?” he says in a burst before his mouth catches up with his eyes, when Stiles on the bed doesn’t even respond. His phone begins to ring and after dramatically lifting his wrist up to see the caller ID, it shows Lydia’s contact.

 Scott carefully walks over the piles of shit scattered around the room and plucks the phone from Stiles’ hand. Lydia and him talk for a while, Scott giving Stiles an increased amount of wide eyed glances. Stiles groans and sits up.

 “Have you heard it?” he asks.

 “Yeah,” says Scott, “I didn’t realise, but yeah. You okay?”

 Stiles’ face is blank and he resists the urge to glare. “I have to go finish my assignment,” he says in a flat tone. Scott still has the phone to his ear, and he can hear Lydia’s direct instructions chattering through the phone. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care.

 “Dude, no, you look terrible,” Scott says in a rush, blocking Stiles path and looking up at him. “Maybe you can ask for an extension?”

 Stiles laughs. “Right, yeah. Sorry, I can’t hand in my work because my boyfriend – who is obviously not my boyfriend anymore – wrote a song about me and it’s playing on the radio. Yeah, good idea, buddy.”

 “What happened?” he asks in a whisper.

 He gives a dark smile. “Fuck if I know.”

 Stiles pushes past Scott, but doesn’t object when he follows him out the room.

*

 The song haunts him. Stiles doesn’t know how but he hears it everywhere. On the lips of his classmates, through crackly speakers of any nearby radio; it’s a fucking good song and that just about kills him. It’s hard that he inspired the thing that burns a hole in his heart, where other people love it and come back for more with each play on the radio.

 He avoids Kira for as long as possible, and one day he hears the song again and he can’t take it. Stiles takes a shower and lets the steam coat over his silent tears; tries to blame the hot, useless feelings he has on the direct hit of  water spurting at him in the middle of the afternoon.

 It’s everywhere. And if he can ever drink coffee again he’ll be surprised.

*

 Coffee shops end up becoming more popular than they should be, and Stiles refuses to enter any normally quiet shop to buy himself a sorely needed caffeine fix. From here he can hear the opening notes to Derek’s song. Scott offers to get him a coffee and Stiles is pretty sure he’s just as aware of the frequency the song makes it to air. Stiles doesn’t keep track of the charts, but he’s pretty sure it’s number one right now.

 Stiles tries not to think about the call he received soon after he first heard the song. Managing to drag himself out of bed became marginally easier after it, but he also wanted to punch Derek in the face for yet another reason.

 “Well,” the voice had said when Stiles picked up. “I’m only ringing because Laura said I needed to give you a good grilling before you try and do anything stupid.”

 “Huh?” Stiles had said, twisting around on the spot in confusion between the library’s shelves.

 “This is Peter, Derek Hale’s manager,” he said in a long drawl. “Basically, you need to back off. I understand your presumption that Hale’s single is about you but _you_ need to understand that you don’t have the means to say anything to anyone that will confirm that. The photos you released to the media have been taken care of and you are not to try and contact my client again, is that understood?”

 “Wait, what?” his voice rose in a panic. “What photos?”

 “Oh, dear. I see I’ll have to threat you with legal action,” the man said lazily through the phone, even though Stiles was pretty sure he couldn’t be held for anything.

 “Tell me about these photos,” he hissed, several parts of his brain locking into place.

 “You released a photo to the media of my client in a controversial light. Half naked, on a bed, with presumably your barely covered arse appearing in the mirror,” he said in a dry voice. “Do you deny it?”

 For once, he had been lost for words because the more Peter talked the more he seemed to latch on to the problem. He had taken very similar photos, on Derek’s phone, no less, and he had done nothing else with them. Stiles didn’t even have a copy. He was certain Derek knew he was being photographed. Stiles hadn’t touched them, had assumed Derek had deleted the thing once he had his phone back in possession.

 “I didn’t –” Stiles tried to say in an angry voice, making it rumble against the speaker. But of course Peter didn’t believe him, and of course it doesn’t matter now. The song is out, Derek’s impossible to reach, and Stiles feels even more hopeless.

 God, it wouldn’t take much for Derek to just ring him up and hear Stiles deny everything even though he can’t possibly come up with an explanation of how the photos were released. Surely his word would’ve been enough; surely his word would have been worth seeking out?

 His sympathy for Derek, despite his past, reduces every time he’s forced to open his ears to how much Stiles is hated. The constant reminder picks at him like opening a cut over and over again.

 Scott walks back to him with his coffee, and gives his shoulder a squeeze.

 “Dude, even my break ups with Allison weren’t this bad,” he says with a frown.

 Stiles gives him a dry smile. “Thanks buddy.”

 “You know the music video came out like two weeks ago,” Scott mentions, and Stiles tries to piece how long he’s had to deal with Derek’s music hovering over his shoulder. “I don’t think you should watch it.”

 Stiles bites his lip because a part of him wants to, so badly. He wants to see if the love interest for the video was played by some actor with a similar build to Stiles. If there’s a coffee shop he wonders if it would be the same layout, if Stiles could pinpoint the exact seats they first sat in. If there’s anything close to their night together, he’d scream.

 He doesn’t exactly find out, and he’s proud of himself, averting his eyes from screens when necessary.

 He’s thankful when Scott starts rambling on about something else, a small, sweet smile on his lips that seems to hide everything into something better. At least for Stiles, it does.

*

 His study partner gives Stiles a bright look when she approaches in the library. She’s waving her hands excitedly, motioning him to hurry up and come closer.

 “You’ll never guess,” she gushes. “Hale’s –”

 Stiles glares at her. Her hands drop down immediately and fall below the table, mouth falling shut. Her lips quiver a little. A pull in Stiles stomach indicates that he feels a little guilty. Kira is lovely, she’s always been lovely. And Scott likes her.

 “Just,” Stiles grits out. “I know you like him. But I can’t stand to hear any more about him, okay? Especially his stupid song.”

 “It’s a good song,” she says softly, and it seems like she’s noticed how Stiles’ hands have clenched tight at the table, his bones protruding out of his fingers, white, and maybe she’s noticed how the rims of Stiles’ eyes are slightly wet.

 “I know,” he swallows. He’s got to come up with a reason. “It, and he, it reminds me of my ex.”

 Kira’s face melts into empathy, like the petals of a flower folding out. She grabs Stiles’ wrist and pulls him down to the table. “You know, that’s what that song is good for. It could empower you instead.”

 “Well, it’s having the opposite effect on me,” grumbles Stiles. Kira squeezes his arm and mimes zipping her lips. Every so often Stiles glances up at her, surprised at her restraint. She used to talk all the time about Derek before, but maybe that was because Stiles was the only one who never asked her to stop.

*

 “You should come and visit me in L.A,” suggests Lydia. Stiles runs his hands through his hair while she waits patiently, probably inspecting her nails. There’s a faint crackling on the line while she won’t change the subject just for his benefit.

 “I’m okay here,” Stiles says, trying to hide how miserable he really is. “And I have shit to do.”

 “Do it here,” huffs Lydia. “You know you can’t even go to parties anymore. You used to love parties.”

 “That’s because,” Stiles grits out, “everyone has some sort of ex. It’s not my fault they scream it like a bloody anthem against all the douchebags of the world.”

 She sighs, and Stiles can hear her shuffling. “You are not a douchebag. I knew –” She stops herself, and the awkwardness rises up. The twist of Stiles’ tongue in his mouth and how no one says anything show clearly how Lydia knows Stiles knew what she was going to say. That it would end badly.

 “Right!” Lydia finally says. “I don’t care what you have to say; I have just bought two tickets to L.A for this weekend. We can go shopping.”

 Stiles scowls at her, but secretly he’s excited to get out of here. Scott’s been helpful, he’s been present and they’ve played a lot of video games and it helps, but Lydia is a completely different distraction. She dishes him out instructions and he’s going to meet her where she’s interning. They’re going to have fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that when I thought of 'song on the radio inspired by Stiles' it wasn't a happy song inspired by Stiles.
> 
> Thought I might post this before my exams, and maybe I'll get some time during my exams to post the next chapter. I don't want to leave anyone hanging if you're still around.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading:) I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter Derek and Stiles have a rather public confrontation in LA. Please read the end notes for more details if you want them.

  _Bring coffee,_ Lydia texts. From the airport to her place of internship it has been mildly okay. He’s only seen one promotional poster of Derek, the sheet of colour minimal and easy to ignore. The only time he heard the song was when the final notes were playing, lost in the chatter of the crowd before being replaced with something else.

 He’s almost humming to himself because for once he feels he can cope with the near constant reminder of hurt. Lydia’s working the desk at some studio, a building among many where she plays around with numbers. It’s going to be good hanging out with someone who won’t let him drown in pity.

 The address she has given shows a collection of white buildings past a long driveway. All the signs he sees aren’t for directions and he’s pretty sure he’s come in from the wrong end of the property. Stiles spots an entrance through the slide of glass doors, and with two coffees in hand he bounces up some steps. It’s eight o’clock, and as much as Lydia pretends not complain about working late hours, Stiles is pretty sure her job is tough and this trip is as much about her seeing her friends as it is about him being okay.

 A short lady wearing a black top and pants spots him from the end of the room. She has a device around her ears, with the dark arm of a microphone sticking out before her lips. Her hands reach out before Stiles can speak, muttering a “ _good, there’s the coffee,”_ and he finds himself being dragged through a set of swinging doors. Stiles hesitates before his feet shuffle after her, and he thinks that maybe Lydia warned the receptionist of his arrival.

 The smell of cinnamon drifts through his nose now that he’s not outdoors. He’s lead around a few corners, having to follow the quick step of the woman before he gets lost.

 “Wait here,” she tells him.

 She’s gone five minutes before Stiles nervously places the coffees down on a nearby table and draws out his phone to text Lydia.

  _So, maybe I’m lost?_

_Seriously? Tell me where you are and don’t move._

_Um,_ replies Stiles. _Everything is white, and I really don’t know where I am._

  _That’s the wrong building, idiot. Ours is an awful teal colour. How did you even get in there?_

 Before he can reply, he hears the creak of a door and another lady with a headset spots the coffee below and her face seems to flood with relief. She motions for him to stay quiet and takes the coffee from him, but not before tugging on the edge of Stiles’ shirt.

 “Um,” he says.

 “Shirt. Off,” the woman orders impatiently, shoving a bowtie at Stiles and leading him down the corridor. His eyes widen but all versions of _what the hell_ run through his head and he decides to just go with it. The bowtie is on an elastic band and he pulls it over his head easily.

 He’s being lead down the corridor and the woman doesn’t even look back at him, doesn’t say another word. Stiles is a little stunned himself but they soon make it to a door and she turns around, glancing down at Stiles’ torso and appearing satisfied.

 He’s vaguely wondering if Lydia had anything to do with this.

 “Here,” the woman says, passing him the coffee again and pushing him through the door. Stiles lets out a little yelp, and his feet fall over each other a little while the lady speaks into her headset.

“Good!” he hears a booming voice. “The _coffee’s_ here, only the best for you since you seem to have so much experience in coffee houses,” his voice goes up and down suggestively, and Stiles scrunches up his nose at how fake it all sounds.

 He rounds the corner and an audience hits him full view. Stiles' eyes widen and his feet freeze into the ground. Sounds of whoops and cheers and clapping fill his ears and someone behind him shoves him forward while cameras that look like big, black cats loom near.

 “Something to cheer you up!” says the presenter, clapping an encouraging hand on the guest’s shoulder. The man gives an embarrassed laugh and his head is dipped forward and covered by his hands. “A little strip tease dance for you.”

 The guest’s red leather seat has its back to Stiles, but he’s still taking in the wide expanse of the audience with a panicked look. The room is excited, all hands clapping at random like a strip of rain among the yells and hollers as they look him over.

 Suddenly he feels quite naked, and he, maybe he’s seen this set before.

“Holy shit, you want me to be a stripper?” he exclaims quite loudly, jaw gaping. God. How did he get into this? What is happening? He seriously hopes that he doesn’t have to take his pants off, but to be honest it’s looking like that’s a distinct possibility.

 The guest sits up properly and whirls his dark head around. Stiles’ heart drops away from him. He feels blood rush away from his head, he’s gone slightly dizzy, and his feet can’t move. Stiles is vaguely aware of his hands shaking and the soft burn of hot coffee leaking from the cup and onto his skin.

 He gulps.

 “You want me to be a stripper for Derek – for Derek Hale?” Stiles yells, surprised he can barely talk.

 Derek’s pleasant look leaves his face in an instant. His heart stutters, and Derek’s on his feet. God, it’s been so long since they just stared at each other and the rest of the people in the room seem to hush involuntarily.

 Derek’s eyes wander to his shirtless apparel and then snap up again. Stiles’ muscles squirm inwards for a second and almost self consciously he contracts his abdomen into a curve. A striking amount of anger hits him and he can see the forced rise and fall of Derek’s chest.

 He can’t quite remember why he’s in here.

 “What are you doing here?” Derek accuses.

 “Wait,” says the presenter, “you know this guy?”

 Derek nods stiffly and stands as if he expects someone to do something. Maybe the wires aren’t connected in anyone’s brain anymore because no one does.

 Stiles’ breathing starts off shaky and the words are out of his mouth before he can doing anything about it. “You coward,” he manages. “Just because you’re an artist or a celebrity doesn't mean you get to treat the rest of us like shit. It doesn't mean you get to treat me like shit. How do you expect me to feel hearing that song everywhere, a song full of incredibly specific but somehow general lyrics,” he shakes the coffees in his hand, squeezing them until the polystyrene cracks and his hands aren’t just wet from sweat anymore. “I can't even pretend you're talking about someone else, listening to that and then hearing how I hurt you when you know perfectly well that your hurt was caused by your own inability to trust and communicate since if you had just _talked_ to me you would’ve figured out that what you accused me of was false.”

 Stiles’ teeth are clenched together and somehow he’s made it till he’s two feet away from Derek. He watches the startled expression on Derek’s face morph into a guarded blanket of complete emptiness.

 “I’d believe you, Stiles,” Derek says eventually, a slight sneer on his lips. “If it weren’t for those cameras over there.”

 Stiles swallows, body vibrating. “I don’t care. They can cut this shit out.”

 “It’s live.” Stiles turns towards the presenter, recognising him vaguely from bored, evening channel surfing. He looks positively gleeful in his velvet suit.

 Stiles gives a broken laugh. “Fuck.”

 Derek’s face is blank, and after a moment of silence Stiles feels a firm hand on his shoulder from behind. He lets himself be guided out, leading him to a small room and they pass the real coffee boy – with much nicer abs than Stiles – who’s not needed anymore. The door is shut firmly behind him, his shirt chucked back in and he trips over his own feet. The man’s great silhouette stays outside of the door.

 His hands burn and at least there’s a sink, so he drops the coffees and runs his hands under the cool water. In the corner of the room the television is switched on playing the interview directly live, it’s fucking live, and Stiles fights back a whimper.

 Every piece of furniture is the colour of white ash and his knee throbs from where he rutted it into the corner of the table when he stumbled into the room. Stiles shudders, rips off the bow tie and tries to put on his chequered shirt, but there’s no way that he can get the buttons properly aligned with the way his hands are shaking.

 Stiles has to choke back tears, lip quivering as he tries to sort out the unpleasant flush that comes upon his skin every half a minute. His eyes glance up to the shaved haired presenter, who is trying desperately not to look too excited. His name is Eagleton and his body leans forward, eyeing Derek carefully. Everyone knows he’s just been given instant publicity, and he clutches at it while attempting to appear sympathetic.

 Derek, eyebrows furrowed slightly and jaw clenched tight, has the camera lens draped over his features and he looks distinctly uncomfortable. He’s not even bothering to smile, for fuck’s sake, when normally on these things he at least tries to. There’s a shade of deliberate boredom littered across his features, interspersed with flecks of anger sneaking in when his nostrils flare and lips suddenly curl.

 It’s pretty silent. Stiles didn’t mean for this to happen. His stomach swoops over and over like he’s about to fall, but he’s not hitting the ground.

 “If you want to interview me,” Derek says after a while, biting at the words. “You should probably start.”

 The audience gives a timid laugh, and Stiles pulls at his shirt until the back of the collar rubs against his neck so hard that it’s burns. Eagleton allows himself a smile.

 “Was that the man who inspired your current single?”

 Stiles glares at the television and his fingernails bite into his thighs through his denim jeans.

 “I don’t disclose who I write my songs about if they’re about anyone, but you’re welcome to your deductions,” Derek replies in a stiff voice.

 “Asshole,” Stiles mutters to himself. Flashes of anger imprint his mind, it directed at Eagleton, at Derek – at himself. It covers the guilt of exposing Derek to a lot more of the media than he had bargained, to the zoned eye of each waiting camera and to the beady looks of money grabbers. But Stiles swears, he swears he didn’t know how much of Derek he was giving away to those greedy hands.

 “Okay,” says Eagleton carefully, and Stiles catches the slight roll of Derek’s eyes. “Would you let me know if you wrote a song about me?”

 Stiles snorts.

 “I don’t know, Bruce, are you planning on pissing me off?” he asks, finally smiling as he narrows his eyes.

 Eagleton laughs, clapping Derek on the shoulder and disgust flickers on Derek’s face for a second, easily missed. For some reason Stiles feels like he’s on Derek’s side in all this, he’s rooting for Derek even though it was Stiles’ heart that had been ripped out; abruptly, all at once, and then again, ever so slowly over the course of the past few months.

 “So do you write songs specifically to bash people?” Eagleton says, donning a professional composure.

Derek sighs like he’s carrying a burden the size of the moon. “No.”

 “If someone does inspire a song, do you give them fair warning for when it’s going to be released?” he asks eagerly.

 “It’s not often that I do. Look, I just write what comes in my head and if someone’s in my head when I’m writing then I can’t help that,” Derek says in a quick voice.

 “And as a celebrity do you think you’re better than anyone else?” Eagleton says over Derek’s last words.

 “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Derek shoots out his hands. “You’re going to quote someone at me who shouldn’t have even been here and who looked just as surprised as I was? Have you even listened to my songs? I don’t think I’m better than anyone. The only person I’m even slightly inclined to think I’m better than is Stiles, because he knows and everyone knows that my shit has been plastered on those magazines before, leaked by someone I thought I knew, and he’s gone and done it again for the second time, to be immortalized on tape.”

 “Twice?” says Eagleton with a squeak.

 “My publicity sorted the first one out,” Derek says in a dark voice. “Now they’re going to have a field day after tonight.”

 Stiles grips at the cushions on the seats, frustration rattling through him. Those fucking photos. God, he wishes things could’ve been different, and he hates it how he doesn’t understand how Derek came to throw his trust away. He had nothing to do with those photos being leaked, _nothing._

“I’m sorry,” says Derek, impatient when Eagleton doesn’t fill the silence and instead nods a lot of times. “I forgot about your swearing rule.”

 “Not at all!” Eagleton says almost gleefully. He’s shit. He’s the shittiest interviewer Stiles has ever laid eyes on and Derek seems to agree. “How do you think it feels for people to know how much,” he pauses and his hands jut at the air, “pain they caused you?”

 “Some people don’t care,” Derek says, turning into a brooding monster again.

 “That’s fucking bullshit!” Stiles yells at the screen, feeling like he’s being clawed at from the inside out. “That’s bullshit and you know it you dick!” Tears sting at his eyes as he screams at no one except the security man outside. The man doesn’t even flinch.

 “And,” Derek continues. “I certainly don’t care about them anymore.”

 Stiles’ heart sinks, and Eagleton shakes his head. At his next words, Stiles has to give him some credit.

 “Is there anything you want to clear up now that you have the chance? Maybe now you’ve heard the other side of the story? He said –”

 Stiles looks up at the screen, a shred of hope slithering in his belly when Derek looks directly into the camera. It creeps in on him, edging delicately over his handsome features which are suddenly more cutting than they have ever been.

 “I know what he said,” snaps Derek. Eagleton raises his eyebrows. “Why did I agree to a live interview?” Derek sighs, looking defeated before he even starts his sentence.

 Eagleton gives him another look of fake sympathy. Stiles feels so stupid for even hoping about anything.

 “I’m sure all your fans are going to be offering you support over the next few days,” he says instead. “But that’s all we’ve got time for. Lovely having you here, Derek.”

 Derek gives a curt nod in reply, before turning his body as much as he can away from Eagleton. To his audience, he gives a smile at least and a grateful nod for them being there. He’s probably feeling guilty that they didn’t get what they were expecting: a happy, smiling, laughing Derek.

*

 They let him go once Derek has left the building. Miserably, he asks the security guy for directions to the teal coloured building and with a sympathetic glance the man holds out his hand for Stiles to follow. He thankfully doesn’t say a word, so Stiles nods his gratitude when Lydia spots him coming through the door.

 “Stiles!” she crooks her head to the side in worry, staring at his miserable face. “What happened?”

 “You’ll find out soon enough,” the security man says, giving Stiles a clap on the shoulder before leaving. Stiles kicks at the ground with his sneakers, paying much more attention to the floor than he has ever done before. Eventually, his eyes flick up to a whirred brained Lydia, slightly guilty.

 “Okay, you need to tell me. Give me two seconds and we’re going to dinner,” she says breezily, taking his arm so that he doesn’t wander off again. When she gets around to bombarding him with questions, there are already drips of tears coating his eyes and it doesn’t take her much to figure it out.

*

 Lydia still drags him out shopping, taking his phone off him now that it constantly buzzes, ignoring him when he groans because Derek’s song has started to play again. Stiles is perpetually embarrassed, looking shiftily over his shoulder because who knows, a flying arrow could hit you at any moment.

 “Look,” she says in a hard voice, gripping Stiles’ shoulders and forcing him to make eye contact with her. “It’s okay. Don’t feel guilty about surprising him. He’s been an asshole anyway.”

 “A misinformed asshole,” Stiles mutters.

 “He had the means to figure anything out,” her painted nails seem to grip even tighter into Stiles’ shoulders. “Think of it this way: you’ve probably helped his sales that much more.”

 She was right, the frequency they heard the song had increased. It was happily quiet in LA considering only Scott knew his plans to stay specifically with Lydia, and not much bothered him. At the airport, however, Stiles saw his figure on a magazine blocked with a pink font. _HALE GETS HELL FROM COFFEE SONG STRIPPER EX._

He stares at Lydia, horrified, grabbing the purple beanie off her head and stuffing it over his face. “They’re not even creative!” he moans. “And people think I’m a cheap whore! Can’t I at least be an expensive whore?”

 “That whole getup was ridiculous,” Lydia confirms. “And you were supposed to be a stripper wearing gold pants, not a whore, Stiles.”

 “I didn’t have any gold pants,” says Stiles with a frown. “Wait, you’ve been reading stuff?”

 Lydia steals her beanie back and tells him he’ll be fine.

 Stiles eyes her wearily. “Did you know he was going to be on that show?”

 Her eyes widen in exasperation. “Stiles! I pretty much leave the room on your behalf whenever’s he’s mentioned. If I had known I would’ve told you. Besides, there’s a new celebrity there all the time and the novelty wears off pretty quickly since we never get to see them.”

 Stiles looks back at her. “Okay,” he says, and Lydia gives a firm smile.

*

 Scott meets him at the airport with masses of chocolate and videogames in his arms. Stiles gives him a faint smile and tries to focus on the goods. He thinks he can make it, that he can deal with it because so far, despite being on live television and yelling at the hottest thing on the planet, no one has recognised him.

 When they get in the taxi, Scott turns to him awkwardly, rubbing a hand over his hair. “Um,” he says awkwardly. “People at school have figured it out and our dorm has extra security now. There are kind of reporters everywhere.”

 Stiles glares at him. “How do they know where I live?”

 “Dude, we live with broke college students, someone leaked it to someone for cash,” Scott says, patting Stiles’ shoulder. He sinks into his seat and puts his hoodie on, the faded red colour his sole protection. “And,” says Scott hesitantly. “Your Dad called. A lot.”

 “Shit,” Stiles says, sitting bolt up and whacking his head on the top of the car. When he switches on his phone it blows up with missed calls and texts and it vibrates constantly in his hand like a rabid dog. He scowls and turns it to silent, aware of the taxi driver staring at them occasionally through the rear view mirror.

 Scott passes him his phone and he calls home, but no one answers. They’re voicemail machine is full. He calls the station.

 “Um,” says Stiles. Whoever’s on the line recognises his voice instantly and without a word passes it onto his father.

 “Would you mind telling me what’s going on?” John says in a stern voice. Stiles can hear a dorm slam.

 “Dad,” Stiles whimpers.

 “Was anyone ever going to tell me that you were dating a music star?” John says, voice slightly raised like he’s trying really hard not to let his deputies hear him through the walls.

 “Uh, eventually?”

 “Stiles,” sighs John, and Stiles can picture his face right now. It’s worse than any of the terrible feelings that have been travelling through his body the whole weekend. “I saw that clip. I’m sorry it happened. But I don’t even understand how you got in there.”

 “Me too,” says Stiles in a small voice and doesn’t bother explaining.

 “And apparently my deputy’s favourite song is written about you?” John says, obviously hopeful that it’s not really the case. Stiles doesn’t answer. “There have been a lot of phone calls, but the town has been pretty supportive of you.”

 “They don’t want you giving them a ticket,” mumbles Stiles.

 “Don’t think I won’t give them worse.”

 Stiles lets himself grin a little.

 “Be careful son. There will be people who want things from you so stick with Scott and go to all of your classes regardless,” John says kindly. He doesn’t mention the stripper thing, thank god.

 They’ve pulled up to their dorm and Scott is not wrong about the reporters. He feels his lungs begin to work overtime but he switches off his mind thinking holy shit, this is what Derek has to go through every day. Hands swipe at his jacket, people call out things to his face but the people who work at the dorm help him in with Scott behind him.

 It’s a whirling experience, and Stiles feels almost vacant in his mind. He doesn’t get why so many people are so interested in him; the college student, smart mouthed him. When they get to their dorm room, Stiles collapses on his bed and Scott leaves him be. He hates how the whole world can probably guess how he feels.

*

 He could get money from this, Stiles thinks to himself while he’s lying on his bed that night. He’s sure some stupid magazine would want to dish out some cash for a secret spilling interview. It’s totally possible for him to pave the beginnings of his way out of debt.

 Stiles plays with the idea like a kitten playing with string. He’s not serious, he’d never do it, but all the same he can’t help imagining the process, choosing the interviewer who offers the most money, dishing the dirt on Derek, seeing his face when hurting words rip across media stations the way that song did to him.

 With a sigh and tired of listening to Scott sleep, he turns over in his bed and forces his eyes closed. Coming back to the dorm at night had been the best thing, and he steadies himself for how shit his day is going to be tomorrow.

*

 Stiles is bombarded on his way to class. It’s absolutely ridiculous and surreal and all Stiles can think of is how at least there will be pictures of him with his shirt on. He keeps a blank face and stares straight ahead like he’s looking for something at the edge of the woods, refusing to stare at the ground and push himself into pathetic territory.

 Once he makes it inside the lecture theatre, the door squeezed shut behind him, he almost sighs in relief, but then a thousand beady eyes wander down on him. Most of them rake their eyes up his body, smirking because they know what’s there. Some cast him angry looks because for some reason they had a right to Derek Hale more than he did. A few seem impressed and others rather awkward.

 “Sorry I’m late,” he mutters to the professor who has been giving him shit all semester. For once he doesn’t say anything, and they all watch Stiles climb to his seat, a quiet buzzing of whispers in the air.

 He chooses to sit beside Kira, and she gives him a surprised smile before clearing her things away so that there is more space for him to sink into misery.

 “It’s a shame to see you without a bowtie, Stilinski,” says his professor and then there’s a chaos of laughter around him. Kira gives his shoulder a squeeze and for the rest of the lecture Stiles clicks his pen incessantly, staring at nothing, the photography flashes rattling in his head.

 At the end of class Kira leans over to him. “Do you want to borrow my notes?” she whispers. “You looked distracted.”

 “Oh. Thanks.”

 “I can delete my blog if you want,” she blurts out. Stiles stares up at her as a dark flush of crimson spreads over her cheeks.

 “It’s okay,” Stiles says, attempting a smile for her.

*

 It’s the death threats that come next. They sit in their dorm room and he and Scott go through them, a bottle of vodka in hand. The green curtains, though they are floors up, are pulled tightly shut and the alcohol burns down his throat, till he’s pretty sure Scott’s going to take it away from him soon.

 “Ooh, here’s a descriptive bit on what someone’s going to do to my balls since I hurt their dear Derek!”

 They find the hate probably more because they are seeking it out and because Scott is too drunk to think about why they shouldn’t. The blind anger shit is great, it’s the stuff that points out it was really shitty to yell at Derek on live television that makes him want to shred bits of his own skin.

 It’s probably not healthy.

*

 Stiles has to get a new phone. Even after the mass of initial texts and calls, someone leaked his number. It’s more like a burst pipe, and there are floods of calls from people he doesn’t know offering _insane_ amounts of money.

 Eagleton calls. He asks to have Stiles back on his show and Stiles responds with a resounding _fuck off_. He gets a new number and a little part of him breaks away because if Derek ever had the whim to call he wouldn’t be able to.

*

 He’s in the library, Kira sitting quietly opposite him. She’s an unlikely ally in this situation, and for some reason Stiles trusts her. She’s almost refreshing in the way that she doesn’t hate on Derek either. She still likes him and is honest with it. Stiles doesn’t hate Derek either, he just wishes things could be different, maybe wishes everything had started with a different coat of paint.

 Scott’s joins them too, bringing with him bits of comfort food while they study. They hear a tap of feet stride close to their table, its rhythm screaming cockiness. Stiles doesn’t look up, chewing on the edge of his pen till he can feel the plastic taste dip permanently on his tongue.

 “Hey,” the guy says in a low voice, sinking his weight onto one foot and leaning around so that his hip is pressed a little against Stiles’ arm. Stiles glances at Scott.

 “Hello!” says Kira cheerfully, twisting her body to face a guy Stiles is pretty sure turned him down in his first year. She’s ignored.

 “So you’re the guy who fucked Derek Hale,” he says. It’s the first person who has actually said it outright, who has progressed from more than just extremely interested looks. Stiles grits his teeth wondering when people stopped throwing sand in his eyes and started stripping him down with sandpaper instead.

 He hears Scott growl next to him.

 “You should go out with me. I’m sure we can have lots of fun, I’ve even got a couple bowties that we can tie your hands up with,” he says with a click of his tongue.

 “No,” Stiles says in a steady voice, trying to stop the vicious tapping of his leg against the underside of the table. He can feel Scott’s glare from beside him, like the stretched bow of an arrow, ready to attack.

 The guy pauses for a moment, pursing his lips slightly as he takes in the situation. Kira sits quietly at her seat.

 “No,” says Stiles again because he hasn’t left. “Because you’re a dick.”

 “Let me guess,” he sneers. “What did it take for you to get into his pants? Did you sell yourself? You’re nothing special, Stilinski. You couldn’t think any of that was going to last, did you? What’s so special about –?”

 He feels his fingers tingle with the extreme desire to make knuckles connect with this guy’s face. He’s even wearing a leather jacket that’s desperately similar to Derek’s, except his muscles aren’t nearly so prominent, and his face isn’t handsome enough for it to be a tragedy if his nose got dislodged. The feeling to fight pools in his gut, tongue running over the edge of his teeth as he listens to the guy’s words.

 But it’s Scott who jumps up first, fist colliding faster than Stiles’ astonished face can comprehend.

 “Get out,” Scott hisses and Kira looks up at him with admiration.

 The guy – whose name isn’t even worth saying – looks tempted to fight back. But a slow stream of eyes come over from around the library and he thinks better of it.

 “Thanks man,” mumbles Stiles.

 “That won’t be the last time, Stiles,” Scott says in a strained voice. “You’re the closest we’ve got on this campus to something famous.”

 “Well you know me,” he tries to say playfully. It probably ends up sounding quite desperate.

 Scott is right. It’s not the last time.

*

 A breeze of murmuring flushes through one of his classes, picking up and slowing down at will. Stiles sends them glares over his shoulder, aware that he has no friends in this class. Towards the end of the lecture the quick movement of mouths and vocal chords come to an end, and finally, Stiles thinks he can concentrate.

 There’s a faint click and Stiles bites his tongue unexpectedly, blood staining his mouth. The first few undeniably recognisable notes of Derek’s song start to play and he knows what’s happening before anyone else who isn’t in on it does.

 A sweeping feeling of helplessness penetrates his bones, and he jumps up quickly so he can get out of the room before the lyrics start. He hears voices belting out behind him, full of raucous laughter. All his books tumble into his arms, threatening to fall till he makes his way to the bathroom, eyes hot.

 It becomes a thing. It probably didn’t help that anyone he’s come in contact with he’s glared at, especially if he’s only talked to them once before. He tries to ignore it, but small groups of students start to sing the song quietly as he approaches, it getting louder and louder as he goes by until all it sounds like is screeching.

 They sing the lyrics about his body with absolute glee. All Stiles can see are flashes of skin sliding over skin, the broken yell of Derek’s name on his lips and the feel of Derek’s shudder over him, burning lips at his neck. He sees Derek’s face, wonderfully content as they lay on the sheets, sides pressed together.

 But it all falls away to Derek’s utter look of betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While trying to visit Lydia, Stiles yells at Derek on live television on some talk show. Stiles is mistaken for one of the employees hired to entertain their guest as pretty much a stripper. He knows the cameras are recording but he does not know it is live. 
> 
> There are also instances of bullying in this chapter from Stiles' peers after the show has been broadcast. 
> 
> *******  
> I don't even know sometimes, I'm sorry.
> 
> I wasn't sure about this chapter, but a couple of my friends said I should post it anyway. You have these videos to blame: [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYnl0H0mFGo) [x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z6Vcb50D2lk) [x.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAr-uz3zH84) I reckon that Stiles was mistaken because he matched the guy in the coffee shop music video. 
> 
> I should probably also say that there's going to be a happy ending once this story is over. I should mention that, right?
> 
> Thank you so much for reading:) I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com) And on another note, only one more exam for me to go!


	12. Chapter 12

 All the chaos slowly trickles away and it’s not long before things are quiet once more. To the rest of the world Stiles is boring again and someone else is causing havoc in the newspapers. He’s blissfully left alone while he studies, and at least the inky words and heavy textbooks are a constant.

 His degree finishes with his exams, a fog lifts, and he can breathe a little more again. Of course, now there’s not much to distract him but he has Scott with his easy patience, and calls with Lydia. It’s a support system enough. Somehow things are okay even though that song still isn’t going anywhere. Stiles doesn’t even think it’s about the music anymore.

 It’s a relief to get home and his father’s grip is strong over his shoulders when Stiles is pulled into a hug. Stiles feels guilty for keeping so many things from his father, and his stomach drops when John never calls him out on it. He probably reckons that Stiles has suffered enough.

 John looks Stiles directly in the eye when he pulls back from their embrace. “Now,” he says. “If that man comes around I’m pretty sure I can find away to get rid of his bodyguards.”

 Stiles sighs. “He hardly has bodyguards, Dad. Let’s not talk about him.”

 His father swings Stiles’ bag over his shoulder and he looks at his son carefully. Stiles keeps his gaze ahead, unwilling to so easily give away what his father is trying to find. Stiles does spend an awful lot of time thinking about Derek, he does wonder what could have happened if everything had gone right. His father doesn’t need to ask to know that, and he’d rather not say it aloud.

 They get to their warm, comforting house and Stiles drops to the couch like strings have been snipped away from his body. He turns on the television to some channel where it’s unlikely Derek will make a guest appearance and relaxes with the constant buzz of words. Stiles is careful not to roam where that fucking song might still be playing.

*

 Rain speeds down the side of the car when Stiles pulls into the grocer’s car park. At home the cupboards are bereft of any good food; a clear indicator that his father hasn’t been eating very well while he’s been at school.

 Stiles doesn’t notice it much at first, but the longer he stays between aisles of food the more glances he receives from strangers. Looks slip his way as people recognise him, who now know him more than just the Sheriff’s son. A gritty layer of irritation coats his skin, and somehow it’s worse when it’s people he’s known his whole life who wants to offer their viewpoint his relationship with Derek.

 He stands there teeth clenched as Mrs Hubert talks him deaf, like for once he’s the most interesting person to fall into the store. The intermittent beeps as she scans the products along happen too slowly, and Stiles has to stop himself reaching over the counter and doing it for her.

“The man’s just so handsome,” she gushes, looking at Stiles like he has to agree. “Good job getting that one, though, I’m not sure why you let him go.”

 Stiles stares at her before he remembers the world doesn’t know shit about what really happened. Just a song, a stupid song and five minutes of his life on television that he wishes he could get back. He doesn’t know how Derek can handle this, can handle people thinking they know you.

 “Do you think you could get me an autograph?” she asks brightly.

 He closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t think that will be possible,” he tries to say as evenly as possible. Stiles’ nostrils flare, but the lady is lacking enough awareness that she doesn’t notice the angry dip to his tone.

 “I understand,” Mrs Hubert says seriously, Mrs Hubert, who used to babysit him when his mother died. God.

 Stiles is about to hand over his card when the volume of the speakers drops low between songs. He bites back a groan when the woman in front of him gives a short laugh at what does start to play. His patience is wearing thin; especially at how Mrs Hubert smiles like that song doesn’t haunt Stiles.

 He grunts his thanks and snatches at the plastic bags, eager to leave. When he gets home his father pauses above the newspaper, settling it down carefully when Stiles storms in and begins to rant before the front door is even closed.

 “And then, and then, on the way out I get stopped by some guy from high school about how he goes to that damn coffee shop all the time,” he yells. “Seriously? What are these people on? I can’t believe they think that I want to talk about this!”

 “I’m going to ring Scott,” says John, and in a matter of minutes his friend’s at the door and they’re playing video games.

*

“You need a distraction, son,” John says one day at breakfast. “You can’t sit around moping and watching the Lord of the Rings all in one sitting.”

“I’m an adult now, I can do what I want,” he tries to protest. His father raises an eyebrow. “Besides, I have a job interview next week.”

 “Yes,” his father says, shoving food into his mouth. “In a week.”

 There’s a beat, and Stiles only has to look at him a second before he realises something’s already been planned. “Okay, what is it?” he groans.

 His father grins and pulls a folded piece of paper from his breast pocket. Stiles takes it sceptically, running a fingertip over the fold’s crease. He opens it, and simple block writing stares back at him with a phone number at the bottom of the page.

 “Cooking?” he asks. “I’m really not a cook.”

 “You managed when it was just you and me here, kid,” John reminds him. “It was on the public notice board in the station. You should do it.”

 Stiles looks at the flyer again. It’s for charity, cooking for families around town who need some extra help. If he’s being honest with himself, he does need something to do that doesn’t involve getting mad at strangers. Patience and politeness are so foreign to him now that he feels like he ought to do something to restore some kind of balance.

 John leaves him thinking and is out the door, but after he showers it doesn’t take long for Stiles to press the buttons at his phone. It rings gently for a moment before a woman answers.

 “Oh, um, hi,” Stiles says. “I’m calling about the cooking programme? I’m pretty sure I can help out.”

 He hears a sigh of relief. “That would be amazing. I’m having so much trouble at the moment keeping the programme going, people are pulling out a lot faster than they can be replaced.”

 “Glad I can help.”

 “Do you think you can cook three meals by Friday?” she asks hopefully. “For a family of four. If it’s too much, just let me know; anything really would be good.”

 “Three is good,” Stiles says easily, and she tells him that any kind of casserole dish will do. He scratches a pen against paper when she rattles off an address, somewhere on the preserve, and Stiles is excited because he’s never been there before, never met the family who owns that bit of land.

 “I’ll send some money from our fund through to you to buy ingredients and what not,” he’s told.

 “Sounds good. I’m Stiles by the way, do you want my number or can you get it off the caller ID?” he asks, feeling lighter now that he’s got something to do. “What’s your name?”

 There’s a stretch of silence on the other side of the phone after his own voice echoes back at him. Stiles blinks, waiting for a response and wondering if the line has been cut off.

 “Uh, hello?”

 “Sorry!” she says quickly before pausing again. “I’m Talia,” she tells him carefully.

 “Cool,” Stiles replies, trying to ignore the way the air has gone stale through the phone.

 “And you’re Stiles?” she confirms.

 He stops a hiss of frustration coming out of his throat because it’s clear she’s recognised his name. “Yes,” he grits out.

 “I imagine there’s only one Stiles who lives in Beacon Hills.”

 Stiles says nothing for a moment. “Look, if whatever you’re getting at is going to be a problem you should just tell me now. If my personal life, which should hold no interest to you or to anyone who isn’t my friends or family, is going to bother you, tell me now. _Is_ it going to bother you?”

 He doesn’t mean for his words to sound quite so hard, but by this point he’s just had it.

 “Of course not,” Talia says in a tight voice. “I think–”

 “Good,” he interrupts cheerfully. “I’ll see you on Friday.”

*

  The wind picks up around him in the late afternoon as he makes his way to the front of a large house. At this time of day light from the sun begins to fall flat, and Stiles’ knocks on the timber before shoving his hands into his pockets. It’s an unfamiliar setting at the edge of the woods, everything much more alive than the usual static of Beacon Hills.

 He doesn’t have to wait very long before a series of quick footsteps are heard behind the door. With a click, the heavy wood swings open, and Stiles is ready to open his mouth but before him is a curious and calculating stare of brown eyes.

“Um,” he says, gesturing towards the jeep. “I have the dinners?”

 The girl smiles. “You’re Stiles.”

 “Yes,” he replies tightly, and her gaze rakes over him with far more excitement than it should. Stiles tries to hold back a sigh.

 Her eyes snap at him at the girl rocks back on her heels, folding her arms. “So,” she says, and the word is loaded and dripping heavy with everything Stiles has been trying to avoid for months. He can’t help but notice the way her voice is spoken with an unexplained dash of authority and right, and instead of retaliating he asks for Talia.

 “She’s not here,” she replies brightly, looking delighted. “She sends her apologies and whatever.”

 “You are expecting the meals, aren’t you?” he asks in a flat voice. The girl nods ecstatically.

 “I’ll help you.”

 She pushes the door a little further open and bounds past Stiles to the side of his jeep. The girls waits for him to lean into the spall space between seats, and he passes her a dish and takes two for himself, using his hip to shut the door.

 The breeze plays at the girl’s hair, fluttering around her face when she turns back to him, considering her options for conversation with a bitten lip. Stiles keeps his own mouth in a flat line, hoping desperately that the girl will keep her mouth shut even though it’s obvious she recognises him.

 “You’ve ever been here before?” her voice is innocent.

 Stiles shakes his head.

 “Just so you know, I like you,” she says with a wicked smile. “Despite what you did on the tv.”

 “I don’t see how that’s relevant,” Stiles says back in a tight voice.

 Her eyes sparkle. “I mean, that guy, um, _Derek Hale_ , he was a bit of a dick. I bet he knows it too but he’s too chicken to do anything about it.”

 Stiles follows her into the house without a word and if it weren’t for the fact he was in someone else’s home he’d probably say something vaguely offensive back. He has to admit though, this is the first time someone has readily talked shit about Derek instead of putting him on some momentary pedestal. It’s surprisingly refreshing.

 The girl takes his silence as a cue to continue, putting her dish on the kitchen bench and then moving behind him again. When Stiles turns, her hands bracket the door, weight sinking into her hip like she’s not going to leave anytime soon. He narrows his eyes at her as she keeps him prisoner to her words.

 “I bet he’s writing a song about you.”

 “Songs aren’t going to do me any good,” Stiles huffs back his words before he can stop himself. By the doorframe the girl looks delighted at his response, almost like she’s relishing in it. Whatever his life is, it’s amusing to her.

 “I bet,” she says, “that he’s –”

 “Please take your bets somewhere else,” Stiles snaps at her. He strides back over to the door, and the girl rolls her eyes.

 “Fine,” she says. “Mum did tell me not to attack you.”

 “Seriously?”

 The girl nods, turning her body so that Stiles can get out of the door. “Dinners same time next week?” she asks, and Stiles seriously considers saying no if this girl’s going to be there again. But he nods, knowing his father will not be impressed if some nosy girl stops him doing a favour for someone.

 “Okay,” he agrees, traipsing out of the kitchen and back towards his car where the air isn’t as thick.

 “Bye Stiles!” the girl calls out to him, and he’s about to call back when he realises that he doesn’t have her name.

                                                                                                   *                    

 Stiles hums his way through cooking. He’s managed to pull out some old recipes of his mother’s, propelled to work a little harder at the meals especially with the _thank you_ text Talia had sent him. It’s nice to feel useful.

 He thinks his over the internet interview has gone smoothly, though through the blurred edge of his webcam he sees the interviewers recognise him and exchange glances. Stiles does infinitely better  at answering the questions when they don’t mention anything, and though there’s stabbing reminders of Derek everywhere, he thinks he could get used to it.

 It’s just the girl again the next week. Her expression is less amused and more frustrated, staring at him carefully when they get the meals out of the car. There’s something knowing about her look, and Stiles’ skin crawls with discomfort at the way the teenager’s lips are pressed into a thin line.

 “I tried new meals this time,” Stiles tells her, trying to offer up something for the conversation.

 She shrugs. “I’ll tell Mum.”

 “So, what’s your name?” asks Stiles, shoes scuffing over the steps as he walks up the porch. There’s a glimmer of panic in the girl’s eye, there for a split second before she ignores Stiles’ question and changes the subject abruptly.

 “We’re getting another guitar this weekend!”

 “Um, okay? That’s cool. Are you a musical family then?” Stiles asks weakly as they make their way inside.

 She smirks. “You could say that.”

 They don’t say much else, and now that Stiles isn’t being bombarded with heavy looks, he’s able to notice the wide spread of the kitchen, the generous space there and the shiny countertops. He’d love to cook in there instead of the cooped up space in his own house.

 He’s about to leave when she pauses hesitantly at the door, body curved again so that Stiles can’t get past.

 “Do you want him to do anything about it?” she asks quietly.

 “I don’t even know you,” he replies forcefully, trying to move around her. Hands catch at his shirt, tugging the fabric tight to pull him around again.

 “Just answer the question!” Her voice is determined.

 “No,” he scoffs, narrowing his eyes.

 Stiles can’t bring himself to literally shake her off him and her dark eyes get more lethal the more the time passes. He clenches his teeth  and thinks of Derek, thinks of the way he was treated and the damn way he wishes Derek could just get out of his life  so that he can move on.

 If things don’t die down completely soon, he’ll go insane. This girl is not helping.

 A stretch of stubbornness resides in her features, and both of them play wars with their eyes. For some reason, it sort of feels like a familiar practice and frustration creeps at him.

 “Just tell me what you think of Derek, I want to know!” she presses.

 Something snaps.

 “God!” Stiles yells. “Fine! I – it’s hard to move on from someone when there are constant reminders of them everywhere, when every person – including you, by the way – recognises me just thinks they can bring him up like he’s their business just because he’s some celebrity. I want it to stop. I want everything to just stop so that I can get a job with my useless arts degree and spend time with people who don’t give a shit about who I had a relationship with. Would people just leave me alone?”

 The girls drops her hands, frowning in disappointment. “Fine, sorry,” she mutters. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s an idiot.”

 Stiles laughs, the sound a little raw. “I’ll be here next week with whatever food your Mum wants.”

 He clutches at the wheel once he’s in the jeep, the sound of the engine accompanying his frazzled thoughts as the tires speed over the ground. Almost by accident, he slows when passing the coffee shop. It looks exactly the same, the welcome sign beckoning him near.

 His veins shiver and he pulls over, a small weight forming in his stomach that drives him towards the door and centres him. The tables lie in the same places and his memories strike at him when the bell rings over the door and when he sees the seats they had claimed as their own.

 Over the counter Isaac’s on duty and he looks surprised at Stiles’ entrance, straightening and pulling his hands away from the bench.

 “It’s good to see you, Stiles,” he says eventually.

 He nods in return and orders his coffee.

*

 A hot flush dances over his skin whenever he remembers his encounter with Talia’s daughter. He’d rather forget yelling at strangers about Derek and Stiles clings to the hope that someone else will answer the door this week. There’s a strange car parked out front, sleek and silver, and hopefully that means Talia is home.

He tries to keep a pleasant expression on his face, bracing himself just in case he’s walking into another session of attack, but it’s a mass of blonde curls that flick through the gap in the door when it opens. Her face is sharp and gorgeous, mouth opening to speak but she pauses, eyes narrowing.

 In a swift movement she curls around the door so Stiles can’t see into the house and now the woman is outside with him, the door shut.

 She folds her arms. “You look too familiar for your own good.”

 “Right,” Stiles says in a high voice, not following. “And you are?”

 “Erica,” she replies, taking a step closer. The form of her body falls uncomfortably near when she leans forward. “You?”

 It sounds less like a question and more like a test. Stiles swallows and replies with his real name, voice stuttering a little because he hasn’t said it in a while. Erica almost snarls at him.

 “You can go,” she orders.

 “Look,” says Stiles, stepping around her and putting up a hand. One of the casserole dishes lies balanced on his other palm. “I’m just here to drop off dinners for a charity project. Char-ri- _ty_ ,” Stiles says slowly, throwing her an accusatory look.

 Erica narrows her eyes at him. “Talia!” she throws over a shoulder. They stand opposite each other for a few minutes and Erica refuses to remove her steely gaze, the seconds passing by almost audibly as they battle with their glares.

 A cautious look sits on Talia’s face when she opens the door, it flickering away when she notices Stiles.

 “Stiles!” she exclaims quietly. “What are you doing here?”

 “You texted,” he replies. “To come today.”

 “No,” Talia tells him. “I was going to text you today and ask if I could pick up the dinners from your house.”

 Stiles clears his throat. “Well, I got a text. I didn’t know you had guests or that it was going to be so much of a problem.” He shoots a look at Erica.

 “He shouldn’t be here,” she says in a hard voice.

 “It’s okay,” sighs Talia. “Go get Cora, please Erica. You and her can bring in the food.”

 Erica huffs a little but does what she asks.

 Stiles’ forehead wrinkles. “Am I not allowed in your home or something? Wait, Cora?” He blinks, bits of information slotting together in his mind. He stares at Talia and her dark features seem to hold some familiarity. “Shit.”

 Talia keeps her gaze steady and Stiles’ nostrils flare.

 “No,” says Stiles in disbelief. “That’s not right. No.”

 Hell, even the name Erica he should recognise.

 Talia tilts her head to the side; giving him a tight, considering smile. His chest seems to shatter, and all this is far too much. Stiles wills his brain to halt, to not tease out the understanding so that he doesn’t have to deal with the information at hand.

 His throat stutters and _Cora’s_ head pokes out the door, eyes widening and excitement brewing under her gaze. Stiles has heard plenty about Cora before, recognition dawning in his eyes as he sees her disappear again.

 “Cora!”  her mother yells, “ _don’t._ ”

 “Honestly! What is going on?” says a pissed off voice behind the now open door. “Erica looks like her head is going to explode and Cora’s running through the house like a badgering idiot, Mum?” Then Laura’s head peeks past the edge of the wood and Stiles stumbles backwards, fingers slipping over the plastic wrap on the dish.

 He’s starting to feel a little nauseous, Laura’s mouth dropping open slightly in surprise. Sweat prickles on the back of Stiles’ neck, the drops sticking to the edge of his shirt. There’s less hostility in Derek’s sister’s gaze than he thought there might be, but it doesn’t stop the flicker of weariness over Laura’s eyes when she takes in Stiles again.

 “You’re Talia Hale, aren’t you?” says Stiles in a small voice. All the seams in his brain melt away like wax. “You should’ve told me.”

 The two women before him exchange glances. “This is Cora’s fault, isn’t it?”

 Talia narrows her eyes. “Go get the food, Laura.”

 Stiles finds the casserole dish being plucked from his arms, fingers quivering against the edge of the plate. “Is he in there?”

 The nod comes with a smile. “I’m sorry Stiles, I honestly didn’t mean for this to happen. I think my daughter must have texted you from my phone because Derek is in town. I also had told her to tell you that we’re the Hales, and I would’ve done it myself if I had been here these past few weeks.”

 He fights back a whimper of desperation, but he’s uncertain, thrown off balance. He feels the limited distance between himself and Derek right now, swears the man is like a beacon, concealed but there, so close to Stiles right now.

 Threads fray in his head and he wishes he didn’t have to be constantly taken by surprise.

 “You didn’t want to make your own judgements about me?” He asks in a dry voice, surprised he can even manage.

 Talia gives a sad smile back at him, neither confirming nor denying. She stands like she’s protecting her house, protecting Derek, like she’s unsure what to think. But really, if Talia did have a problem with Stiles being here she would’ve told him not to come in the first place. There must be that.

 Laura comes back out again to get the rest of the dinners. Stiles turns on his heel to follow her back to the jeep, chewing at his bottom lip so much that it will probably be swollen by the time he gets home.

 Derek’s sister carries a dish under each arm, her dark gaze examining him closely. Stiles feels far too stripped. “Hey Stiles,” Laura says eventually.

 “Hi.”

 “Sorry about Cora. She believes Derek, and well, Derek believes –” she cuts her sentence short, shaking her head and stepping away.

 His fingers fumble when he goes to start the ignition, vision a little hazy. A part of him wants to see Derek in the flesh instead of in edited photographs or heard in the static of air waves. He longs to get things straight, for everything to be presented with facts rather than fiction. Stiles swears he should be owed at least that.

 But it can’t happen here, not in Derek’s home space.

 Stiles sits on the driver’s seat for a while, staring ahead and trying to breathe. He can’t possibly drive right now. A little part of him is vaguely aware that Cora is up to something, and he knows he should get out of here but he’s motionless.

 He registers a bit of shouting and protest, and his throat closes up when he sees Cora dragging a tall figure behind her.

 Through the glass of his jeep he sees Derek slightly pissed off, with Cora looking wickedly pleased with herself. Derek shakes his head, scowling at her retreating figure before his eyes rise and Derek stills.

 “Stiles?” he hears.

 Slowly, Stiles shifts his own gaze and their eyes lock. Everyone else is gone now, and the world seems to blur at the edges. Derek stands there in a snug jersey, sweat pants on the edge of his hips. His face is surprised and not closed off, but his hands clench at his side and he just stands there, the way Stiles just sits there and waits for something to drag him out of this trance.

 Eventually, Stiles manages to give a little shrug. He cranes his neck to reverse out, and in his rear view mirror Derek stands like a statue on his porch, handsome as ever.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this is okay :)  
> I guess there's a bit of a time jump where there has been a bit of reflection on both sides.
> 
> This chapter kind of reminds me of the first one, where Stiles didn't recognise a Hale. I guess I wanted to mirror that a little, and where that was the start of that chapter in Stiles' life here is the start of another. I don't know.  
> The apologies wanted will happen in time:)
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented last chapter, and sorry if the wait was too long given what happened in the fic but study has to happen. But yay, thank heavens, exams for me are over.
> 
> On another note, my laptop has been playing up a bit and the keyboard throws hissy fits at me a lot. It did okay with this chapter but at some point I might have to get it fixed or something and that might make updates a little late. I really do want to finish this fic now that I have some time before next semester starts though.
> 
> Thank you for reading:) I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	13. Chapter 13

 Stubbornness infiltrates his body when he’s given the opportunity to back out of the programme. Talia’s words drown with inevitability that Stiles will give up on the cooking, stretched with the expectation that he’ll say no. Stiles is sick of letting other people decide what happens to him these days, and with a tight voice he tells her the dinners will still be cooked.

 His father’s work ties him up, and he breaks the promise of delivering the dinners to the Hale household himself. Stiles doesn’t blame him, only dreads the ride over, dreads the plague of nervousness that comes with this territory.

Stiles isn’t sure if he regrets the decision yet, hoping dearly that someone other than Derek will be the one to answer the door. The drive is slower that it is normally, though the leaves pass by in a blur behind the windows. He doesn’t know why he does this to himself, just knows that since Derek has been in town he’s been in a cascade of emotions, tumbling down before he can stop it.

 He grabs one of the dishes when he pulls into the drive, holding it as a shield between his chest and the tall door. Stiles’ feet drag against the porch steps and he gives a quick knock on the wood, the tap accompanying the whip of the wind outside.

 There’s a deliberate pattern of steps from behind the divide of the house, and Stiles waits with clenched teeth, a tapping foot, and with shreds of anger he wishes he had gotten rid of months ago.

 Derek opens the door.

 A stutter strikes Stiles’ heart and he wills it away almost instantly, trying to forget it. He’s immediately pulled to Derek’s direct gaze, swept with an almost haunting glimmer as his lips press together. The man’s breath seems trapped in his chest, like his whole body is caught in a photograph.

 Stiles turns his head and bites hard on his cheek, thrusting the dinner towards Derek with a definite lack of finesse. An utter of surprise leaves Derek’s throat, hand reaching out and falling accidentally against Stiles’ wrist when he catches the dish.

 Stiles ignores the piercing edge of Derek’s stare and turns on his heel, ready to stride back toward the car. After a quick moment, Derek follows him.

 “They told me why you were here,” Derek says quietly, and Stiles glares.

 “Thought they might.”

 Derek says nothing.

 Stiles opens the back door of the jeep and collects another dish to shove in Derek’s arms. He pulls his gaze away from the surrounding land to settle on a dark shade of stubble, on long lashes that dance around strong eyes. It’s been months since he’s seen this face properly.

 He tears his gaze away. “What do you want, Derek?” Stiles snaps.

 Slowly this time, Derek takes the dinner and there’s a strain on the plastic wrap where Derek pulls at it with his fingertips. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, eyes searching for something in Stiles’ face but there is only a tight line of anger.

 “Can we talk?” he asks. “Please,” Derek adds.

 Stiles’ nostrils flare, twisting to get another dish. “Some people don’t care anymore, Derek,” he quotes back bitterly. “There’s nothing to talk about.” His voice is hard and cruel, and Stiles watches the way Derek’s eyelashes flutter shut a moment, as if he’s bracing himself for something.

 “I, please, Stiles. I want to say sorry,” Derek tells him, gaze now surprisingly attentive. “I’m sorry.”

 Stiles turns on his foot.

 “You’re sorry?” he snaps. “Why in the hell should I listen to that?”

 Derek scratches at his beard, thumbholes at the ends of his jumper visible. He looks up and around, like the air and sky before him can provide the words he needs to make this better. Judging from the way Stiles feels, Derek is failing miserably at making anything better. There’s far too much anger settling inside him for that.

 “I’m not expecting anything,” Derek grits out.

 “Good,” he replies nastily

 “I never meant for you to get that unwanted attention.”

 Stiles clenches his teeth together. “Well I got it.”

 “I,” starts Derek. “I tried to call you.”

 Derek opens his mouth to continue but Stiles doesn’t want to hear this, doesn’t want to hear Derek stumble through an awkward apology when he’s had months to sort out what he would like to say. He’s had months to think of something worthwhile.

 “I don’t give a shit!” Stiles cuts across him, voice rising. “I don’t care that you tried to call me. You didn’t try hard enough; you knew exactly where to find me.”

 “Stiles, please, do you want my family to hear you?” Derek says quietly, cheeks reddening, probably hoping this snapshot of their life could stay private.

 His eyes widen. “Let them hear me! I don’t care what they think of me anymore. I don’t care anymore that this is your house; I can say whatever the fuck I want to you, as loud as I want, since you only mean enough for me to tell you to fuck off,” he snarls.

 Something loose shakes in his bones because here is the months of yelling he hasn’t had the chance to do, here is the anger he wouldn’t let out on strangers for fear of gaining more attention than he already had. And fuck if Derek can think he can ask for privacy, not when any of the privacy Stiles had slipped through his grasp.

 He locks onto Derek like a band pulled tight between them, ripping into Derek, who, who just stands there and takes it. Takes it like he knows he deserves the heavy tone Stiles throws at him. It’s harder to yell that way, when no one is pushing back at you, when no one stands there and deliberately coaxes out a temper.

 Stiles manages to stop for a moment, breathing heavily, and standing far too close to Derek than he intended.

 Derek swallows when Stiles doesn’t continue. “I want you to know I believe you about the photos. Not when it counted, but I want you to know I believe you now.”

 “The photos,” Stiles repeats, voice a little ragged. He drags himself from a new slur of words, eyes dipping over Derek and remembering the first step of how they got into this mess. Of barred sunlight and sleepy expressions. Derek drops his gaze, looking distinctly embarrassed at catching the other remembering. His cheeks turn a little pink, but his eyes are sad, like he misses a moment he’ll never get back again.

 “I know it’s too late,” he continues, “and I’m sorry for it.”

 “Damn right, it’s too late,” Stiles says at him, leaning into the jeep and pulling the remaining dish from the seat. He goes to march forward, ready to dump the dinner in the Hale’s kitchen, but there’s a tap of fingers at his wrist and Derek’s touch urges him back even though he doesn’t want to give into it.

 “I wrote a song,” Derek tells him.

 “Songs don’t mean shit, Derek.”

 “It’s not for you,” he hurries to say.

 Stiles snorts. “Oh, great, thanks.”

 “I’d like, I’d like for you to let me release it. So the rest of the world can see you didn’t do anything wrong,” Derek says in a quiet voice, dropping his warm touch from Stiles’ arm.

 He blinks, hands shaking when he pushes the final dish at Derek. The glass slips between his fingers the way this relationship slid into the past. “I don’t care what you do,” Stiles regards him coldly, ignoring the hot sting of tears in his eyes. “I don’t care that you’re fucking sorry. Next week when I drop off these dinners, you better not be the one to answer the door or I’ll pull out of the programme altogether. Leave me alone, Derek.”

 He sees the moment something in Derek’s eyes disappears, the colour of his eyes dulling to despair. “Stiles, please –”

 “Don’t,” Stiles warns him, jabbing his finger at the air. “Just don’t.”

 Derek startles at the force of the door slamming shut, and the sound removes Stiles from the spell of emotion littered through the air. Without another glance he goes, falling away from the Hale territory, towards home, towards where he can convince himself yelling at Derek made him feel better.

*

 Stiles is quiet when his father arrives home from the station, dinner set out carefully as soon as the Sheriff steps through the door. The meal holds little words and Stiles wonders if he should have let Derek speak a little more, if he should’ve done something different or if he shouldn’t have listened to a word at all.

 John leaves him to his thoughts, checking in on Stiles just before he goes to bed, hoping that his son won’t stare at the empty stretch of ceiling all night.

 It’s all a little surreal when Stiles plays back the afternoon in his mind. For a moment he feels a desperate shake of hurt rattle through him because he wanted more than this. He wanted a proper chance for his love for Derek to grow and to become something safe for the both of them.

 He wants the pain to go away for the both of them, yet he wants to claw at Derek again, ready to shake him and shout at him. Stiles would go there again if only to take back the hurt he’s felt for months and throw it in another direction.

*

 There’s a soft hum as Stiles’ phone vibrates softly in his pocket, and Scott goes to lower the volume of the television. With a swipe at the screen Stiles answers the call, not bothering to look at the caller ID when these days his contact list is limited to a few.

 “Hello,” he greets cautiously.

 “Hey Stiles, it’s Kira.”

 His eyebrows rise in surprise, and Stiles straightens on the edge of the couch. “Oh, hi Kira. What’s up?”

 Next to him Scott visibly straightens, turning his whole body to eye the receiver carefully. Stiles rolls his eyes, letting himself smile and he pushes Scott’s shoulder away with a quick press of his palm.

 “I’m just ringing because I didn’t want anything to take you by surprise again,” she tells him, and his pulse quickens at the thought of anything happening again without enough warning. He lets her continue, listening hard for her quiet words. “Derek released a song yesterday.”

 Stiles’ eyes widen. “He actually did it?”

 Kira’s words stop in her mouth. “Um. You know?”

 “Kind of,” he pauses. “I sort of said he could?”

 “Stiles, the song is clearly about you,” Kira warns him. “It’s ... you’re not explicitly mentioned but the song is very similar to the other one, almost as if it’s been transformed. It’s hard to explain.”

 Stiles glances down at his fingernails, unsure what to say. His friend smacks at his arm when the silence goes on for too long, when Stiles’ mouth quivers like he should say something. No words come, but it’s Kira who breaks the silence.

 “It kind of makes me want to date you,” she blurts out.

 “Uh.”

 “Oh my god. I’m sorry, I don’t mean that. I really don’t – not that, I mean you’re wonderful Stiles, don’t get me wrong, god please don’t tell Scott I said that,” she winces, settling for a breath. “I just think that the whole world will want to date you now.”

 The corner of his mouth tilts upwards at Kira’s panic, imagining her blush. “Oh really?” he says cheekily, but he can hardly see the whole world wanting to date him. That is a little extreme.

 Kira sighs. “The song is really quite beautiful, Stiles. You should hear it. I understand if you don’t want to, but it’s been put up for free on his website.”

 Stiles rolls his eyes at that. Free. He guesses he’s supposed to appreciate the fact that Derek won’t profit on his life, but it’s not enough and his blood slides with irritation.

 “I’ll keep it in mind,” he settles on finally, trying not to fall into heartbreak. “He’s, uh, he’s not made me out to be someone I’m not, has he?”

 Scott nudges his leg; now aware of who they’re talking about. Stiles ignores him.

 “No. Not at all. I know you Stiles, and he’s got you written down rather well.”

 Stiles exhales, his mind unable to process everything at once. He takes in Kira’s words but he decides to leave them where they are, left aside for him to tackle when he’s got the energy and the distance necessary to manage it all.

 “Hey Kira, Scott’s here,” he says, breaking away from the line of conversation. “Want to talk to him?”

 Kira goes quiet for a second before she gives an enthusiastic affirmative and Scott’s dopey grin as he accepts the phone makes Stiles feel almost light for a second. It’s nice seeing people happy.

*

 At the top of Derek’s website there is a sharp shot of Derek’s eyes piercing the camera lens. Stiles swallows at the direct stare, the pull of curiosity firm as it takes only a few clicks to find access to the song. There has been little for him to do around the house, still waiting for news on the job he applied for, and it’s not enough to keep his mind from wanting to hear whatever Derek’s got to say.

 He clicks.

 The music wraps around his ears and for an awful moment Stiles is sure that he’s got the wrong track, with familiar beginning notes loitering in the air and falling like a mirror to the original song. The busy thrum of his heart almost drowns out the music as it begins to change, the sound a little sweeter but tainted with sadness.

 Derek breathes into this song; truth and clarity propelling the music forward to something so full of the night, but with the twinkling tears of the stars. Derek is there, in the lyrics and in the music, and somehow Stiles is there too.

 It pulls threads tight to make a lasting picture, a fairly accurate one at that without being too detailed, and Stiles almost sways when he listens. He wonders how many months of attention went into this one track because its quality is unwarranted, and there’s a brief second where all his anger is forgotten.

 He’s proud when he exits the browser quickly, turning off his computer altogether and collapsing on his bed. Stiles does not listen to it again, he can’t, not when it leaves him so unsure. It’s a song, it’s just a fucking song and it’s not for him, anyway.

 All he has to do is push Derek aside, push him away so that their paths don’t have to collide, even though it’s desperately clear that Derek is still in love with him even if he’s not asking for anything.

*

 It’s hard not to feel smug when people blush after they catch his eye. They scan Stiles when they think he’s not looking, unsure with what they see now that he’s not considered someone’s dirty leftovers. They can’t possibly imagine how Stiles could have such a pull on someone, and Stiles doesn’t care that Derek has torn himself down so that Stiles can be portrayed as something valuable. Finally, he’s seen as someone that meant something.

 This time around Stiles silently dares the onlookers to comment, and the tactic works because they shut their mouths instantly. The attention is not wild, being in Beacon Hills, but their confusion has left them thankfully silent, Stiles able to step outside without any feelings of dread. He’s left alone.

 Stiles is not going to thank Derek for it.

 In fact, he’s unwilling to deal with the thought of Derek. Without the breathy strings of instruments, Stiles remembers that he’s still mad. Every time he pauses for half a second a point of anger begins to spread in his chest because he wants more than a damn song, though he can’t quite imagine what he does want from Derek.

 When he drops the meals off at the Hale house he sees Cora’s breath hitch in excitement, mouth opening slightly with quiet interest as to whether Stiles has heard the song. Stiles says nothing, only smiles at her politely and hands her a casserole with a steady hand.

 Though disappointed, for once the girl doesn’t try to push him.

*

  Stiles’ head is buried in his pillow, legs tangled in the covers, with sunlight trying to get past the curtains. The bedroom door swings open and with a groan he turns over to see Lydia Martin standing in the doorway.

 “Your Dad said you’d be sleeping,” she says, lips spread in amusement before she strides into the room and swipes the curtains open.

 “I’m not anymore,” he grumbles. He rolls off the bed and takes the covers with him. Lydia waits for him downstairs while he showers and gets dressed, and once he’s properly awake Stiles gives her a full on hug at the sight of her in Beacon Hills.

 She pulls back and examines him dead on, eyes flickering over his face and searching for whether or not Stiles has fallen for dear Derek and his beautiful song.

 Stiles sighs. “I’m still mad at him,” he has to tell her. “But you don’t have to visit me just because a stupid song came out. I’m not going to break.”

 Lydia tilts her head to the side. “Sorry, Stiles. It’s just a unique situation.”

 “No,” he says. “It’s a bad breakup and nothing more. I want to forget about it, not be tested for emotional damage at every turn.” Stiles snorts. “We all know who is the most emotionally damaged, anyway.”

 Lydia doesn’t laugh. “Can I just say that I hope you told him to fuck off?”

 “I think I did at least once.”

 She smiles. “Does moving on for you involve forgiving him?”

 Her voice is careful, one hand still resting on his arm from their hug. Stiles looks at the floor and gives a small shrug, twisting his fingers together in his hands. Somehow he feels slight, unsure. “I don’t know,” he says. “We’ll see how it goes.”

*

 They split the shopping list in two, Stiles giving the piece of paper a firm rip down the centre. Lydia takes one half of the busy writing, running her eyes down it briefly before twisting on her heel to deal with the cooking programme ingredients. Stiles takes care of the things for his own cupboard.

 Lydia is not happy that he’s agreed to go to the Hale house once a week. Stiles stares at her retreating figure guiltily, aware of her worry that he won’t move on. With a sigh he turns to the first aisle, working methodically through his list, and occasionally bumping into his friend.

 She flings food into the trolley with a bit more ferocity than needed.

 “He wrote you a song,” Lydia presses.

 “It doesn’t change anything,” Stiles promises. “He’s still a dick.”

 She gives him a look. “He was a dick before.”

 They move to pass by each other again, but he breaks his unruffled guise too early. Lydia sees the ripple of weariness over his features, that flicks through his veins, and she takes him in with a sad sigh.

 “You’re clearly conflicted about this whole thing,” Lydia tells him.

 Stiles drops his mouth in protest, “I am not!”

 Lydia purses her lips before she smiles, striding away from him and moving her hips likes she’s scheming. Her heels tap against the floor and Stiles begins to mutter to himself, dumping a bag of flour into his trolley.

 He’s almost at the end of his list when there’s a small tap on his arm, a figure arriving without the sure steps of Lydia’s shoes. Stiles turns around instantly, and it’s Cora who nears him in the otherwise empty aisle.

 “I just want to say,” she begins promptly, holding up her hands in defence. He glares at her, trying to protest but he’s cut off straight away. “I’m sorry for interrogating you when you were at our house. It wasn’t very nice of me.”

 Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, don’t worry, I’m not going to mistake you for some saint,” he mutters. Cora narrows her eyes.

 “It was that or punching you,” she says stiffly. “But you’re lucky I believe you about the photos. Derek believes you too.”

 “Oh right,” Stiles laughs dryly, wishing he could go one day without being reminded of Derek. “I’m lucky. And yeah, he said.”

 He decides he doesn’t have to put up with this Hale any longer, swiftly plucking a couple of boxes of muesli and throwing them into the trolley. Behind him Cora lets out a sigh of frustration, pace matching his as she hurries after him.

 She continues. “He’s been moping pathetically about you.”

 “How embarrassing. You’re not doing him any favours,” he snaps back at her, eyes scanning the end of the aisle for a glimpse of red hair. The trolley glides against the floor and he leaves Cora standing behind him, the rubber squeak of her shoes halting and the sound of her sigh further away.

 Stiles rounds the corner; wanting to find his friend, pay, and then leave into the fresh air of the parking lot. He comes to an abrupt stop at the sight of a broad back of leather, and in the gap over the man’s shoulder is a swirling dip of red hair. He licks his lips in surprise, feet locked in place, and Lydia’s eyes flicker over to him briefly before resuming their icy stare.

 Her words don’t skip a beat. “You don’t get it. Stiles didn’t have to put up with just your shit; he had to put up with everyone else. People are terrible. So even if Stiles does find it in his heart to forgive you, what makes you think he’d want to get back with you when he’s only ever going to be considered in terms of you? Some song isn’t going to change that. In fact, it will only make it worse. Start trying to be considerate, and leave him alone.”

 Derek’s spine is rigid; hands placed both sides of his body while he grips the bar of his trolley tight. There’s a sharp intake of breath behind him when Cora falls into the equation, hearing every word spoken down the aisle. Within a second of her arrival, Derek whips around, eyes flitting sharply between the two figures.

 They stand around him like a cage, Lydia flipping her hair over her shoulder with a smug expression. She catches Stiles’ eye to give a small shrug of apology, but Stiles doesn’t care. His friend can yell at Derek all she wants. It’s certainly not the hardest thing Derek’s had to go through.

 Derek’s bright eyes meet Stiles’ for a fleeting moment before gravity pulls them to the floor. “Hi,” he says quietly. With a twist of his wrist he manoeuvres the trolley around Stiles, passing near when he strides to his sister. Cora shrugs a little, eyeing Lydia a little warily before turning after her brother.

 “I’m not sorry,” Lydia tells him when they watch the pair go.

 “I know.”

 “He looks defeated,” she purses her lips, pleased with herself.

 Stiles shrugs, gaze held on Derek’s retreating back. It’s almost as if Derek can feel eyes on him, like a trickle burning down his back. The air is tight when he throws a look over his shoulder to find Stiles still staring, and abruptly Stiles looks to the floor, lip bitten.

 Lydia sighs. “Do you have everything on the list?”

 “Almost.”

 “Let’s just get to the checkout before they do.”

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was ridiculously difficult to write, so I hope it's okay. I wrote a number of different versions of the first bit before this one happened.
> 
> I reckon that Lydia also came to Beacon Hills on the off chance that she could yell at Derek. And who knows how long they were there before Stiles turned up??
> 
> Thank you for any comments, I smile a lot when I get them and it's lovely to know that people want to read this:)
> 
> I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	14. Chapter 14

 He’s not sure what he’s expecting when he hears the dull knock at the front door. Stiles flings his book aside as the hesitant pattern continues, and with a sigh he drags his feet to answer it. The night is full outside and when he swings the heavy frame open his breath halts.

 Under the porch light is the soft pull of a leather jacket, a flicker of eyelashes - and at the sight a burning trail of shock hisses through him. Something pierces his chest at Derek’s open mouth; lips perched like he might like to say something, but his words seem caught in a breeze.

 They stare at each other a moment. Stiles slams the door.

 The cold from outside has swirled in with the warmth of the house and Stiles’ heartbeat is a clear thrum under his skin. His face grows hot and he swears under his breath, resisting the urge to kick at the door when the knocking starts up again. Stiles feels the vibrations where his forehead is now pressed against the door, and his thoughts fall to a mess.

 “Stiles, please, open the door,” he hears Derek’s voice.

 He thumps his head on the wood and tries to suppress a groan. It’s quiet for a second outside, and for a fleeting moment Stiles wonders if the man has gone away. He wants him to go away. But then again, a severe part of him doesn’t want silence to speak any longer, and he’d rather stare Derek in the eye when he tells him to go, to leave; anger simmering on his tongue.

 Stiles twists the handle and yanks the door open.

 Derek is a lot closer than he anticipated, and the man’s chin jerks back. “Stiles –”

 “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Stiles hisses at him. “How could you possibly think I want to see you?”

 “I figured – just give me two minutes, okay – Stiles, please, just two minutes.”  

 There’s an edge of pleading to his voice, and Stiles just stares, grip tight against the wooden door. Rage spurts behind words that aren’t quite making their way out of his mouth, and instead of speaking his teeth clench together. Stiles takes one look at the open set of Derek’s lips and his muscles pinch tight before he slams the door shut once more.

 Derek’s faint call of his name escapes through the closing gap, but as Stiles walks away there’s a loud groan from behind him and heavy swearing follows. Stiles swallows, turns, and slowly the door trickles open again, not really having been shut.

 Derek is bent over, cradling his hand and his eyes are dotted with tears. “Fuck,” he swears, straightening a little and leaning against the door frame. His eyelids flicker and his brow scrunches in clear pain.

 “What the hell did you do that for?” Stiles yells, frustration welling up.

 Derek twists a little to glare at him. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he snaps. “I meant to catch the door.”

 On the porch, Derek’s breath is heavy against the cradled mess of his hand. Already, a line of sweat rests over his forehead and he stares at Stiles like he should be doing something more helpful. Silence drops in the air as Stiles’ nostrils flare.

 “You okay?” asks Stiles stiffly.

 “No,” Derek grits. “Ice. Get me some ice.”

 Stiles’ mouth twists at the order, shoulders sagging a little because he really doesn’t want to deal with this.

 “Stiles, I play guitar for a living, ice, please,” Derek snaps.

 He resists the urge to kick the door shut again. “Fine,” he mutters back, turning on his heel. He doesn’t hear anyone follow his loud stomps to the kitchen, and he snatches a packet of frozen vegetables with a lot more force than necessary.

 Derek’s voice is faint from outside. “Can I come in?”

 “Ugh, fine,” Stiles calls back, just loud enough for Derek to hear.

 He throws the packet to the table, along with a tea towel so the cold doesn’t burn his skin, and Derek steps gingerly into the fold of the room. Giving a small glance to Stiles, he reaches out to the cold packet with a wince. Stiles stands at the doorway, arms folded, watching the way a low hiss exits Derek’s lips as he clumsily holds the icy pack against his hand.

“That was stupid,” Stiles glowers at him.

 Derek looks down, but tries to keep his hand upright.

 “Is it bad?”

 He nods, teeth biting into his lower lip with every small movement. With a sigh, Derek pulls a chair away from the table with his foot before collapsing into it. An urge to comfort surprises Stiles, and his heart rate spikes as he stops himself from going over to Derek. He’s not quite sure what to make of Derek Hale sitting at his kitchen table, now, after everything.

 There’s a crinkle of movement whenever Derek adjusts the icy package and Stiles’ stomach flutters when he manages to get a glimpse of Derek’s already swelling fingers. What the hell are they supposed to do now? Wait for it to heal while they sit awkwardly together?

 Derek stares up at Stiles from the table, but Stiles keeps his gaze pointedly away. He tries to search for words but it’s hopeless. His feelings are as blurred as the half formed sentences in his head. Derek darts out his tongue to wet his lips, jaw a hard line from the pain, but he looks as if he might speak.

 Before either of them does, Stiles hears the crunch of gravel from outside. He smirks.

 “That’s my Dad,” he says, twisting his lip around. Derek almost goes a shade paler at that. He gulps, straightening when they both hear careful footsteps enter the hall.

 “Stiles?” his father’s voice echoes, “what’s that car doing here?”

 He shrugs when his father comes into view and Derek swallows when the Sheriff’s eyes settle in on him. John’s eyebrows rise, and it’s not long before his arms fold and he stands wide, weight settling in on either foot. He takes in the man with narrowed eyes and Stiles notices that just coming home from his shift, there’s still a gun attached to the uniform. Derek’s gaze drops to it.

 “Derek,” John says.

 “Sir,” he replies, beginning to stand. “I can go.”

 “Sit.”

 Derek drops to his seat, almost comically. Stiles snorts, covering his mouth with his hand as his father’s look of interrogation makes itself at home on his face. His weariness is clear, and John glances at his son, trying to understand the nature of the situation.

 “What are you doing in my home?” the Sheriff questions.

 “Um,” Derek says, eyes searching before his face carefully drops blank. “It doesn’t matter –”

 “Did my son invite you into our home?”

 He shakes his head.

 “Before you leave,” Stiles’ father says, tone perfectly even. “I want you to know, that if you come here again without an explicit invitation, I will do my best to make your life a living hell. I don’t care that you’re a celebrity –” His voice stops when he gaze falls to Derek’s hand. His eyebrows rise in disbelief. “Looks like Stiles has already started to live out my threat.”

 “Dad!”

 Derek winces as the Sheriff strides forward to lift the packet gently. He frowns at his son. “That’s going to need medical attention.”

 Stiles throws his hands up, eyes narrowing. “He’ll be fine,” he insists.

 John throws him a sceptical look. “I thought you said he was a famous musician.”

 Derek stands again.

 “ _Sit_ ,” John orders gruffly, this time a hand shooting out to press him down. Stiles sees the waver of pain pass over Derek’s face, and perhaps he winces on his behalf. He pauses for a moment, taking in the ridiculous scene before him where Derek refuses to look anywhere but the table. Stiles deliberates moving upstairs to let his father handle this mess.

 His father sighs, shaking his head a little. “Here are the options. One of his family members can come pick him up, and they will probably demand an explanation.” Stiles tries not to shudder. That would not be fun. “Or, I can take him to the hospital. Or, Stiles, since I’m guessing you had something to do with this, can take him to the hospital yourself.”

“He was the one who put his hand in the door!” Stiles exclaims, but he’s ignored.

 “Tell his mother that.”

 “Dad.”

 “I want you to bear in mind that I have just come home from a double shift,” John presses, and a breath heaves its way through Stiles’ body. He looks over at Derek, whose body is shying away from the looming figure of his father.

 “God,” he snaps, “fine.”

 Outside, the air plays a little with Derek’s hair but they say nothing. Nothing. After returning to his bedroom to get a pair of sneakers, Derek had looked even more uncomfortable, inching slowly away from his father’s relentless stare.

 Derek looks like he’s dug himself a very deep hole, and there’s no one offering him any rope. They both stare out into the black expanse of the windscreen, and Stiles bites his lip to stop himself from speaking. Everything is on edge, and he’s painfully aware of Derek sitting next to him, of the rise and fall of his chest.

 Derek’s head jerks in surprise when Stiles turns the jeep into a car park, and moves to turn off the ignition.

“What?” Stiles asks.

 He shakes his head and sort of stumbles out of the car, eyes switching back to Stiles like he’s not quite sure why he’s still being followed.

>> 

 Stiles hovers near when the doctor examines Derek’s hand. His patient is distracted though, and Stiles can feel how often Derek glances at him, wondering why he’s still here. Stiles does feel a murmur of guilt at the state of Derek’s fingers – where there is definitely a break – and he tries not to focus on it when Derek gets an x ray.

 He deliberates leaving. It would be so easy to, but then, he wants to know if Derek will be okay. He probably will be, but there’s a little weight in Stiles’ chest that needs the confirmation from the doctor before he goes. That weight keeps him at the hospital, along with the growing curiosity as to why Derek turned up to the house in the first place.

 Derek’s eyebrows lift in soft surprise when he sees Stiles still waiting for him. He’s left to a bed, and though the emergency room is fairly empty a few eyes trickle over. One of the nurses pulls the curtain around the bed with a small smile, and Stiles stands back.

 “You can sit, you know,” Derek says quietly. “If you’re just going to stay.”

 “I’m fine here, thank you,” says Stiles stiffly. Opposite him Derek raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. “Have you called your sister?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Good,” he replies, feet firm on the ground. Stiles wonders why he’s not leaving.

>> 

The doctor has been and taped Derek’s fingers. Now they only wait for his sister to arrive, listening to the quiet movement of nurses and patients behind the thin fabric of the curtain. The expression on Derek’s face is tight, almost as if he’s attempting to hide the frequent glances he sends Stiles because he’s still here. He’s still here. He can’t seem to leave.

 As they wait Stiles’ legs begin to tire and Derek raises an eyebrow when Stiles swipes a simple, grey chair from beside the bed and he sits on it with a small thump. His eyes remain on the floor, neither of them speaking even as Stiles feels Derek’s gaze wander along the edge of his face.

 Every so often there’s a little wince from Derek, as if he’s forgotten it’s not okay to move his fingers just yet. Stiles sees flashes of Derek unable to flit his fingers across his guitar, bruised skin trying to heal. Then, printed under his eyelids, the past plagues him. Those same hands move over steel strings in the comfy setting of Stiles’ own home, like once before, when everything was still new.

 He snaps his thoughts away, nostrils flaring and suddenly he’s back in the hospital, Derek beside him and watching him carefully.

 His eyes are wide and sad when he speaks. “Stiles, I’m fine. You don’t have to stay.”

 “Don’t you want me here?” he flings at him.

 “Please don’t make it harder for me,” Derek manages.

 “God forbid it’s hard for you,” Stiles says with a roll of his eyes, settling back into the chair.

 Derek’s eyelashes flutter down to his cheeks, down to the fingers pulled together with tape. His mouth opens as if to speak but with a sigh he decides against it, turning his head away from Stiles and letting it rest back into the pillows.

 “I still don’t even know why you turned up,” Stiles grumbles before he can stop himself.

 “It doesn’t matter.”

 Before Stiles can reply, red painted nails slip past the gap in the curtain and Laura’s head bursts through, taking in the sight of her brother lying on a hospital bed with his ankles crossed. She stutters for a moment when she sees Stiles there, but her eyes are frantic to see the damage.

 “I’m fine, Laura,” Derek grits out, holding up his hand.

 Her eyes widen. “Shit, what happened Derek?”

 “He got his fingers slammed in the door,” Stiles tells her, standing properly. “A couple are broken.”

 Laura turns to face him, her eyes sharp and questioning. “A door?” her eyebrows move up. “And how did that happen?”

 “It was an accident,” Derek growls at her icy tone, swinging his legs off the bed to stand up. His teeth clench when he knocks his fingers slightly, but he visibly ignore the pain and turns his gaze to Stiles. “My sister’s here, you can go now if you want.”

 Derek’s forehead is pinched and he gives Stiles a stiff nod, like suddenly it’s the end of a business arrangement. It’s cold. Stiles glares at him.

 “Sure,” he says tightly, ignoring the way Derek’s breath hitches at his bitter tone.

 Stiles twists his mouth, trying not to taste the metallic bite on his tongue. It seems strange, leaving on this kind of note. Leaving everything on minutes of mutual silence where Stiles wishes he knew what Derek had been thinking. He could guess, but it wouldn’t be the same thing as knowing. Didn’t Derek want something? Didn’t Derek want to fight now that he had the chance?

 His mind folds as he tries to figure out what the fuck he damn wants, before he’s slamming into another body and rough hands grip his shoulders to push him back into the enclosed space.

 “Hey!” Stiles begins to protest, but he looks up with narrowed eyes to find another startling pair glaring down at him with a flicker of recognition over the pupils.

 “You,” the man spits, growling slightly. “What the hell are you doing here?”

 Stiles scoffs, unwilling to answer, but the man has already turned to Derek.

 “Peter, I’m fine,” he hears Derek mutter. “It was an accident.”

 “An accident?” the man repeats, sounding angry. Stiles stops himself groaning. Peter, why the fuck did he have to meet Peter? This was not something he anticipated. All there’s been between the two of them is an uncomfortable set of friction burning at their heels.

 Peter looks down to Derek’s hand, blue tape keeping the fingers held together. He angles his head, staring at Derek with a glint of malice. Stiles swallows when Peter jabs a finger in his direction.

 “Did he do this?”

 “Kind of,” Stiles supplies, enjoying the way an angry breath shatters through the man. Derek just glares at Stiles, urging him to be less idiotic before his manager snaps. Laura stands at the edge of the curtain, eyes wide and hands held together as she takes in the scene.

 “Are they broken?”

 “Yes.”

 “How long for them to recover?”

 “At least four weeks,” Derek says.

 “Are you telling me,” Peter snaps. “That I have to cancel almost everything in your schedule for a _month_ because you couldn’t stay away from this boy like I told you to? Do you know what this looks like? It looks like –”

 Stiles grits his teeth because he knows exactly what it looks like. He can’t let this man talk any longer so he takes a step forward, and in the limited space comes close to Peter’s hot breath. “I know what it looks like,” he says at him, “it looks like the bitter ex couldn’t handle it, got angry, and deliberately hurt your precious Derek Hale so that his career could suffer for a month. Well guess what? That’s ridiculous. Why the _hell_ would I do that?”

 Peter narrows his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you? All you’ve been is a nuisance for Derek’s career. Nothing good and I told him that. I told him that from the start. And now you’ve gone and broken his damn finger to make him back out of weeks of appearances and shows.”

 “Peter–” Laura starts, but with a biting look she closes her mouth quickly.

 “Nothing good?” Stiles laughs. “Last I checked I got you a number one single, and a whole lot of fucking cash.”

 Derek’s lips are tight, watching mirrors of aggravation build up on each face before him. Peter is the worst though, eyeing Stiles like he’s some sort of insect he wants to flatten. Through his teeth Derek urges the two to stop, to be aware that this place isn’t exactly private.

 Stiles throat locks with a huff, chin turning to face Derek. Peter ignores him though, lip curling over his white teeth to pierce his eyes at Stiles.

 “I should’ve tried harder to keep you away. _It_ obviously didn’t work if my client is just going to run back to you anyway.” His voice is eerily suggestive.

 “What – what do you mean?” Stiles falters.

 Cold eyes lock on Stiles as Peter’s face slowly twists. It stays there, waiting. Stiles is met with heavy realisation, and it drips through the air and trickles down the back of his neck.

 “It was you who found the photos,” Stiles says in a dead voice.

 Peter doesn’t move, doesn’t deny. Smirks.

 The room is dead of movement. Stiles still hears the quick intake of Laura’s breath, hears the dull thud of his own heart. His ribs dip inwards, pressing into his lungs before he goes to rip into the man who made his life a living hell.

 “Get out,” and it’s Derek who snarls. “Before I break my other hand punching your face.”

 Stiles turns over his shoulder to find a darkness spreading through Derek’s eyes, pouring heavy as a brisk anger coats his skin.

 Peter hesitates, nostrils flaring, chest rising like he might just ignore Derek’s warning.

 “Peter, leave,” Laura says firmly, now that her mouth no longer stands open in shock. The truth has swept through and it’s desperately clear that Peter had something to do with everything, and Laura grabs Peter’s shoulder, twisting him so that he’s pulled away from Stiles and his client.

 He shakes her off with a violet, aborted movement but Laura gets him to move. Her voice starts out angry before it fades away with their departure. 

 When Stiles turns, Derek’s already sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting on his knee with his back to Stiles. His head is tilted downwards, and in an instant Stiles feels cheated, cheated of something he seriously thought he could’ve had.

 The chance has been plucked away from him, from them both, and he wishes desperately that things were different. So much has changed now. If there hadn’t been sabotage they could have had something. Stiles can feel it. He can still feel it, somewhere, but it’s best kept hidden away and left aside.

 It’s unfair.

 “Derek?” says Stiles, because he can’t say nothing.

 He moves around the edge of the bed, hand trailing perilously close to Derek’s shoulder, but he takes back the unseen offer of comfort before he gives it. Stiles bends his knees, tries to make Derek see him, but there’s only a shuffle of movement, a sleeve to an eye, and Derek pulls himself back onto the bed. 

 “I should’ve talked to you,” Derek starts, “none of this would’ve happened if I had just fucking talked to you.”

 Sort of helpless, Stiles just sits there and looks.

 “After Kate Argent sold her story, Peter ripped into her. He was completely on my side and he ruined her, ruined her career, until she was nothing. I thought he’d be looking out for me again. I honestly did. I tried not to listen to every time he called you a distraction, and then he turned up with those photos and I didn’t know what to think.

 “And I’m so fucking sorry Stiles, because I know it was he who did that but it was me who fucked up everything else, and I fucking hate that song, because you were so good for me Stiles, so good, and you made me happy and you said you didn’t do it, and I couldn’t stop thinking about that – and then I just started writing another song as if I was convincing myself I could make it better. I don’t know if you heard it or not.”

 “I heard it,” Stiles says quietly.

 Derek sighs. “Peter heard it too. Couldn’t figure out why I would want to write it because I only had your word that you didn’t do anything. But I wish, I wish I knew it had been him because then I would’ve stopped listening to him sooner and I wouldn’t have left trying to get you to forgive me so late.”

 Stiles looks down. There’s a brief moment of silence, and Stiles’ fingers scratch on the edge of his jeans as he wonders why, why, why, everything had to turn sour. He’s got Derek in front of him and he feels so much like they’re on the same side here, so much, and the pain moves between them. That brilliant stretch of possibility was snatched away too soon. It hadn’t been perfect, and there had been shit that they needed to sort out, but at least it hadn’t been this.

 He opens his mouth to speak, but Derek beats him to it and starts apologising in a low, hopeless voice. He bangs his fingers against his torso and Derek’s still apologising through the edge of pain, hissing words out like he wants to kill Peter. He’s distracted and flits between a biting anger and hopeless regret. It’s sad, it’s not fun to watch, and Stiles can’t hear it anymore, can’t hear about every moment Peter edged Derek away from Stiles.

 Stiles shoots his hands out to cup either side of Derek’s face, and the edge of his butt settles on the thin mattress. The abrupt movement cuts Derek’s words off completely, and his eyes are wide and dotted with a few hot tears as he looks up at Stiles. His lips part slightly, fighting off the wince as the sudden jerk knocks his fingers.

 His palms are against the slight scratch of Derek’s stubble and Stiles just glares at him. Derek swallows.

 “Derek, Derek, I need you to stop,” Stiles says firmly, his words vibrating harshly at the back of his throat. “I want you to do something for yourself, okay?”

 Derek nods in Stiles’ hands, his soft hair brushing down to Stiles’ thumbs.

 Without quite meaning to his fingers press harder into the side of Derek’s face as he speaks, trying to get Derek to understand. “You have to fire that man, Derek. I don’t care what you do but you better do that – he does not care about you.”

 “He’s – Stiles, he’s my uncle,” Derek says, voice strained.

 “Oh fuck,” Stiles mutters, eyes closing and grip loosening slightly. He drops his forehead down to Derek’s for a moment, because how did that detail escape him before now? Stiles pulls away and presses his lips together, slowly looking back at Derek’s waiting expression. He looks a little dazed, eyes blinking slowly. “Derek, you still have to fire him. Get rid of him.”

 Finally, he drops his hands from Derek’s face and inches back a little. The movement makes a small area of Stiles’ side press against Derek’s knee. It’s warm there.

 “Okay,” Derek says, “okay.”

 “For yourself,” Stiles repeats.

 He nods.

 Stiles rubs his hands over his own face, stumbling off the bed. “I’m, I’m sorry about your fingers.”

 “That was my fault,” Derek whispers.

 The corner of his lip tilts up, because yeah, it was Derek’s fault. He tries hard not to let out a painful laugh, because now, here, he’s going to leave Derek in a hospital bed. He’s just going to go home. Stiles ends up smiling weakly at Derek, shrugging a little before his hand swipes out to part the edge of the curtain hiding them.

 Derek’s free hand, the one not covered in tape, reaches out to curl gently around Stiles’ wrist.

 With a sigh, Stiles turns, unable to pull himself from Derek’s warm fingers.

 He waits for Derek expectantly, his wide eyes roaming over Stiles’ face and his pink tongue darting out between his lips. “I came over tonight, I’m sorry, I knew it was likely you didn’t want me there, but I was going to leave tomorrow. I just wanted to give you my phone number, in case you ever wanted to call me. That’s all. I wasn’t going to ask you for anything else. After that, I was going to give you space.”

 Stiles pauses before he shakes his head. He takes his hand back to rub his eyes, black dotting his vision as Derek waits for him to answer.

 “Fine,” he says, “fine, okay.”

 Derek straightens on the bed, one knee turning outwards as he tries to find a pen or paper or something. There’s nothing around so Stiles pulls the phone from his pocket and hands it to Derek to place the number in. From the bed, Derek’s eyes flicker up between typing in each digit to look at Stiles’ face. He tries to keep it empty, but all he feels is exhausted.

 With a small smile Derek hands the phone over, their fingers flitting over each other in a whisper.

 “It doesn’t mean I’m going to use it,” Stiles has to warn him, pointing his finger at Derek’s chest and squinting his eyes a little in an effort to look convincing.

 Derek huffs a little. “Don’t worry, I know.”

 Outside the curtain Stiles spots Laura standing at the edge of the room. She sees him instantly and hurries over, lip quivering a little as she takes Stiles in.

 “Stiles, I’m so sorry about Peter, and well, everything. I am so, so sorry,” she says in a hurry, and Laura’s hands come up to bracket his arms, eyes moving frantically over his face as she tries to get her apology across. “He just told me everything he did.”

 “Laura – please,” Stiles says, pulling her arms down. She stops moving instantly, bringing her hands to her sides and taking him in sheepishly. He cocks his head to the side. “Derek’s in there. I’m, I’m going to go home.”

 She nods.

 Slowly, Stiles walks away. There are only a few sets of tired eyes as patients wait for doctors, and they don’t pay much attention to him as he leaves. His breath fogs the air outside a little, and in his pocket his phone is heavy with the number Derek put in.

 His father isn’t waiting up for him when he gets home, but Stiles remembers the flash of eyes to be careful as soon as he had left the house. It’s almost like his heart has been suspended, waiting for Stiles to make up his mind about everything. He’s never felt so lost, and he just hopes that Derek is okay. Hopes that Peter stays out of his life and doesn’t cause any more damage.

 The thought sits with him till the moment he falls asleep.

>> 

 In the morning he peers out his window and the Camaro is already gone, taken away like the events of last night didn’t even happen. His phone sits in the corner of his eye but he doesn’t touch it, he can’t bear to even if he wonders what would happen if he did.

 It’s like he’s living on the edge of some sort of dream, and to a point he doesn’t feel quite so angry anymore. He just feels drained and thinks that Derek probably feels the same way. It doesn’t stop him from hating Peter.

 This week when he cooks the dinners, he watches the ingredients fold into the bowl in a daze. He mixes everything slowly into the smooth dish, thinking about everything as the kitchen starts to get hot from the cooking in the oven.

 When his father comes home, he smells the food and gives his son a careful look.

 “Any of that for us?” the Sheriff asks.

 Stiles nods. “Definitely. Won’t be ready for another half hour or so, though. Still got to cook up some vegetables.”

 John eyes him wearily. “How’s Derek?”

 “Fine,” Stiles tells him. “He’ll be fine.”

 He looks up at his father, expecting more of an interrogation. John simply nods, takes it for what it is and doesn’t ask any more questions. It’s good that way, and they eat and things seem almost lighter. It’s like Stiles no longer has to wonder what’s going to happen if he ever ran into Derek again.

 It’s happened now.

 It’s good. Over. And he hasn’t promised anything.

When he drives over to the Hale house he doesn’t feel the same uncomfortable dread he once did. He’s almost light, going there without the guilt they may have wanted to project on him. They didn’t really know how to handle him, and they probably still don’t know how, but it should be better.

 Talia opens the door and this time her smile seems more genuine.

 “Stiles, can I talk to you for a minute?” she asks when Stiles brings the last of the dishes into the house.

 He freezes for a moment. He doesn’t want to hear some apology about them being wrong, and it must show on his face because she pauses, rakes her gaze over him and then clarifies.

 “It’s about the programme.”

 Stiles nods easily and follows her into the mad expanse of the kitchen. Cora is there, nursing a hot drink and she gives a bright look towards Stiles but otherwise manages to keep her mouth shut.

 “Two more people have dropped out of the programme,” Talia tells him. “I’m trying to make up for the less people myself, but in reality I don’t have the time.”

 “That sucks.”

 “Yes, it does suck,” Talia says wryly, and her daughter snorts. “I was wondering if you had the time –”

 “Pretty much do, all I’ve got planned is a follow up interview for some job.”

 Talia smiles. “I’d need you to double what you’re doing now, Stiles. I know it’s a lot. Please feel free to decline.”

 “I do all the dishes at once,” Stiles tells her with a frown. “And then I cook for my dad too, and just, the space in my house is not that great. I don’t know if I could handle doing too much more in there.”

 “You’re welcome to use our kitchen,” Cora offers. Her mother shoots her a look but then falters.

 “Actually, you are. If you think it would be easier for you. I’m quite desperate if I want to keep the programme going.”

 Stiles looks down, unsure, but he shakes his head at his own thoughts. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

 She beams. “Thank you, Stiles. I know it’s not necessarily easy being here. Just text me when you have time to come over, and someone will be here.” She pauses. “You haven’t met my husband yet, but it may be him. Or even Derek. If, if that’s okay. He’s staying here while his hand heals.”

 “And Peter?” Stiles looks up, ignoring anything about Derek.

 “He’s not welcome here,” Talia says in a sure voice. There’s a flicker of anger in her eyes.

 Stiles begins to nod, but soon there’s a thump of feet down the stairs and he turns his head to find Derek entering the room. The man notices the sudden silence and his head snaps up, taking in the scene. The tips of his ears go pink.

 “Sorry,” he says, “I can go.”

 He moves to turn away, but Stiles sighs. “Don’t bother. I’m heading off now.”

 Derek pauses before nodding. Stiles winces a little when he sees the hand bandaged up and held upright against his chest, almost like it’s some kind of broken shield. Derek comes around the corner of the bench, Cora looking devilishly happy behind the edge of the table.

 For a second their eyes sweep over each other and there’s a hint of things being okay. It’s laced with understanding, and something like acceptance of how this has all played out. It could be okay like this, Stiles tries to tell himself, how it is now.

 Stiles leaves the house and it’s good. He drives over to Scott’s, turning on the radio after months of trying to avoid it. None of Derek’s songs play on the whole ride there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this took me a lot longer than I thought it would to write. At one point it was over 6k and needed a lot of rework so I hope it's okay. Derek's side of the story is shown a little here, so hopefully it was easy to see Peter's influence throughout everything really. I'm sorry if it didn't come across the way I wanted it to.  
> But things are looking up!
> 
> Thanks, so, so much for reading! Seriously. For inspiration I read through all you guys' comments again. Thank you for those:) 
> 
> I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	15. Chapter 15

 “Smells good.”

 Stiles strikes his gaze upwards at the hesitant sound. His grip loosens on the kitchen knife in his hand and he rests the blade against the half chopped vegetables. Derek stands at the door, one foot past the frame and the other trailing behind, his good hand still lingering at the shiny handle. Stiles’ pulse jumps and settles before he can bring himself to meet Derek’s eyes.

 He clears his throat and nods. “Yeah, it does.”

 This is not Stiles’ first time cooking in the Hale kitchen. The other times had been surprisingly quiet; a small bit of chat at the door before he’s left right to it. He had met Mr Hale – Warren – and normally Stiles likes a bit of talk but in this house he finds it that little bit harder to speak. They don’t seem to mind.

 Stiles suspects that Derek has told them all to give him space, because their smiles are wide but they keep their distance. ~~~~

Stiles has hardly seen Derek. But here he is with a trickle of rainwater down the side of his face, his hair matted dark with water and cheeks flushed. Yes, Stiles has managed to avoid Derek and it’s made driving to the Hale house a little easier in the afternoons.

 The pour of rain outside echoes through the windows and Derek coughs.

 “I’ll be upstairs if you need anything,” Derek says finally, his eyes falling from his search over Stiles’ face. He wipes the back of his hand over his cheek to catch the rainwater and he steps away. Stiles puts the knife down properly to catch his breath, taking his watchful gaze from the door long after Derek has left.

 At least that’s done. While the anger sits low he can easily spare a few words, but one look at Derek and he feels shaky. There’s so much he wants that he can’t quite bring it all together in his head. He wants things to be okay, but he doesn’t know what that means anymore.

 Stiles tries not to listen to the small shift of footsteps upstairs while Derek gets settled.

**

The kitchen soaks up the loud clatter of pots and lids that fall to the tiled floor. Stiles shoots out his hands in a poor attempt to catch it all, and the noise betrays him when he hears the sound of someone’s door opening upstairs.

 His face grows hot when the last hollow noise rings out, and it’s not long before Derek’s standing in the doorway, a hurried breath escaping past his open lips. Stiles straightens, wincing at the mess over the floor.

 “Um,” he says. “I was looking for the strainer.”

 “Well, it’s clearly not there,” starts Derek, but his smirk fades quickly when Stiles glares. “It’s in the bottom left cupboard.” He swallows. “Do you, uh, need any help with that?”

 Stiles gives a firm shake of his head. “Nope,” he says clearly. “I’m good. You can go upstairs and do whatever you do up there.” He doesn’t start clearing it all away until Derek shuffles from the door, nostrils flaring slightly at being sent away. Derek’s teeth clench together before he heads up the stairs wordlessly.

**

  “Hey Stiles,” Cora says, shuffling up next to him in the kitchen and leaning over to snag an apple.

 “Hello,” he replies, irritated when she simply stands there. He hears the crunch of the apple between her teeth, her bright eyes almost calculating.

 “So,” she says.

 “Cora, leave him alone,” Talia tells her, striding in and peering into the fridge. She grabs a few things and sets them out at the end of the counter, on a patch clear of Stiles’ mess. Cora rolls her eyes and reluctantly steps away.

 “It’s taking forever,” she hisses, and Stiles isn’t sure if he wants to know exactly what that means. Her mother takes in a heavy breath, eyes narrowing but she says nothing. Stiles returns to the food he makes, one set of casseroles already in the oven as he prepares another.

 The oven takes two dishes, and with the third he normally cooks something for him and his Dad to take home. He comes back the next day to do the other three.

 Warren steps in then, arms automatically circling around his wife’s waist for a brief moment while he kisses her temple. Stiles looks down. There’s an overwhelming sense of family here that Stiles has seen a few glimpses of, and Stiles wonders if it’s something he could’ve had, before.

 “Are we leaving soon?” comes Laura’s voice, and she’s in here too, stepping close behind Stiles’ back as she finds something to eat. Her eyes roam over the food, but Stiles swipes her hand away when she tries snatching a sprinkle of grated cheese. “Sorry,” she mutters.

 Out of all the Hale family, Laura is taking the longest to look him in the eye, a guilty blush falling over her cheeks every time she tries to have a conversation with Stiles.

 “It looks good,” she offers instead. Cora laughs.

 Derek is the last one to fall into the room and Stiles groans. “Oh, god, it’s pretty much a freaking family gathering,” he mutters, stopping everything so he can get out of everyone’s way.

 Cora hears him. “Except Peter,” she chirps.

 “Thank god for that,” he says under his breath. The rest of the family have gone quiet, and he sees the shift in gazes around the room. It’s the closest anyone has got to mentioning anything, and Stiles doesn’t even care.

 “Well,” begins Warren with a small smile. They all turn to him, but Stiles is starting to get lost in his own head. He remembers everything that Derek said in the hospital, but what strikes him now is that Peter had managed to ruin Kate Argent. And now, Stiles has pretty much gotten him fired.

 He interrupts the smooth flow of Mr Hale’s voice. “He’s not, he’s not going to make my life a living hell is he?” Stiles asks in a stilted voice. They all stop.

 Looking up with panicked eyes, he sees Derek’s face grow dark. He puts down the glass in his hands before staring directly at Stiles. “I won’t let him,” he says quietly, with the hint of a growl. The shadows across his eyes flicker and the rest of his family stares, all movement brought still.

 At their hesitance, Derek pulls back his look and blinks.

 “That’s – that’s good,” Stiles manages. Cora snickers, muttering something under her breath until Laura shoves her head away. They both follow Derek outside, their bickering getting louder until the closing door stops their voices passing to the kitchen.

 “Though Derek’s declaration is –” Talia stops. “You still have nothing to worry about Peter, Stiles. I promise.”

 Warren nods behind her and Stiles’ worry begins to slip away.

**

 Stiles bites the inside of his cheek when the whine of his engine becomes something he can’t ignore any longer. His tank had been running on empty, and he hadn’t anticipated turning back toward the Hale house for his wallet, needing the money to actually fill the tank.

 He leads the jeep to the side of the road and swears. The air is cold and thin and Stiles slides down his seat with a groan, reaching for his phone to call Scott or his father. No one picks up. His contact list is not very long anymore and it’s hard not to have his eyes fall on Derek’s name, sitting idly in his phone. The pad of his thumb brushes against the icon, but Stiles can’t.

 He calls Talia instead.

 “Is everything okay?” the concern in her voice is immediate when Stiles begins to explain the situation.

 “Yeah, of course, I don’t really need a tow, just some petrol and I’m not far from your house so it’s a bit of a walk to anything and I don’t really want –”

 “No, don’t worry Stiles,” she tells him. “Warren is already out to pick up Derek from somewhere. I’m sure they can get something on their way back to the house.”

 “Is that – necessary?” Stiles tries to finish but Talia has already hung up the phone and he’s listening to a dull dial tone. He sits there and waits.

 A small flash of headlights falls onto his windscreen and Stiles straightens in his seat. Two dark heads of hair step out on either side of the car, and it looks like they’re bickering a little. They stop when Derek snaps his gaze to Stiles’, and Stiles climbs from the jeep.

 “Hello Stiles,” Warren says warmly. He carries a red bottle of sloshing liquid in his right hand.

 “Hi.”

 “I’ll look after your jeep,” he says with an easy smile. His strides are long, looking so much like Derek in the falling light of the evening, and he insists that he doesn’t need Stiles to help.

 He lets out a sigh of frustration, and carefully Derek steps over.

 “I left something at your house,” Stiles blurts out.

 “Oh. You’re going back to get it?”

 He nods, and they don’t say anything else. They watch Derek’s father work at the side of the jeep almost in silence, and when Warren returns his thick eyebrows rise at the lack of words in the air. It doesn’t take long for him to insist that Stiles doesn’t have to pay him back for the gas, and when he passes by he puts a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Derek, if you want things to work out you have to at least say something.”

 Stiles snorts.

 Derek glowers back at his father, but Warren is already moving away. He turns to Stiles. “If you’re heading back to the house, do you mind if I drive there with you?”

 “Um.”

 “Well?” Derek repeats.

 Stiles shrugs, throwing his hands up in defeat and letting out a mangled sound. It’s not until he’s at the wheel, keys turning in the ignition that Derek finally comes over, taped fingers hovering by his chest. He sees Warren’s dark silhouette shake his head, and Stiles doesn’t know what’s meant to be happening when Derek sits and heaves out a breath.

 They watch Warren’s car leave first and Stiles expects Derek to talk, but with a harsh swallow he says nothing. Nothing, even after they’ve pulled away from the side of the road.

 The air twitches around them and the silence sits thickly on their shoulders. Once or twice their mouths open to speak, their gazes cross, and a faint blush settles on Derek’s cheeks before he quickly looks away again.

 Stiles reaches for the radio and he sees Derek’s shoulders relax when the pressure to talk falls away. That’s before the trickle of Derek’s song starts to play, and they hear the now eerie notes of the first song that started it all.

 Stiles isn’t sure who recognises it first. Derek wrote the damn thing, yes, but those beginning notes seeped far into Stiles’ day to day life and he can’t just make himself forget it, as much as he wants to. His throat closes and he focuses ahead, on anything but Derek beside him.

 They get about thirty seconds into the song before Derek’s quiet voice fills the car.

 “Can we please turn that off?”

 Stiles chances a glance, and Derek refuses to make eye contact.

 “Seriously?”

 Derek scowls. “Yes.”

 Stiles’ tongue darts out to wet his lips and he throws his chin out. “Hmm, no. Driver is in charge of the music.”

 There’s a beat of silence, but Stiles anticipates Derek reaching towards the controls. He catches the good hand reaching across and pushes it back against the warmth of Derek’s chest. Stiles fumbles a little at the rough glide of contact between their skin, but it’s nothing compared to the way Derek freezes at Stiles’ hold.

 It feels good, this little stretch of power over Derek. This song has only ever been misery for him and for a fleeting moment he can make it that way for Derek. Stiles doesn’t forget how awful the notes are, how unfair and uninformed the lyrics are, but for once he has this against Derek.

 “I – Stiles, I fucking hate this song, please.”

 “You were the one who wrote it.”

 Derek pauses, his teeth biting together.

 “Well, you were,” Stiles presses, removing his eyes from the passing road to chance a look at Derek.

 “I don’t want to hear it,” Derek repeats.

 “Well, I had to,” Stiles snaps suddenly. “For months, okay? Months. It was everywhere. You can listen to it for four fucking minutes.”

 Heat coats his voice and he snatches his hand away from Derek, gripping hard at the wheel instead. He presses his foot down on the accelerator, the stretch of road inviting him to move faster as emotion suddenly licks over his skin.

 Derek explodes beside him. “I didn’t mean to write a hit, I just wrote! I wrote what I was feeling and I didn’t ever mean for it to turn into what it did.”

 “What you were feeling,” Stiles says flatly.

 “Yeah.”

 “Do you know how shitty it was of you to make that the first thing I hear about us breaking up?” Stiles hisses at him. There’s only the last thirty seconds of the song left to play, and Stiles’ fingers reach out and flick the radio off. Silence erupts around them, but it doesn’t make any of the tension ease. The click of the indicator sounds and Stiles leads the jeep to the edge of the road.

 “I know,” Derek says. “I’m sorry, and I was wrong about everything –”

 Stiles twists to Derek.

 “That song,” Stiles says firmly, “was everywhere, Derek. And once people found out it was about me, they treated me like shit.”

 “What did they do?” Derek asks carefully.

 Stiles pauses. “Never mind.”

 “Tell me.”

 He turns his head away.

 “Stiles.”

 “What do you think?” he snaps. “At least before the stupid talk show I could try and avoid the damn song, but afterwards they made sure I heard it. Wherever I went. And I’m sure you have imagination enough to figure out what they said to me. I don’t exactly want to relive it now.”

 Derek bites his lip. “I’m sorry –”

 “Stop saying that!” Stiles interrupts, and Derek meets his harsh stare. They can hear each other’s breaths fall heavy in the space between them and Stiles hates how it’s so complicated. His heart wants to give way, wants things to be easy. The way Derek’s looking at him isn’t easy to see at all.

 “I,” begins Derek. “I can release a public statement. They’d know it was my fault you got all that shit and, and they’d know you didn’t deserve it. I can give you that.”

 Stiles’ eyebrows rise. “Fuck, Derek,” he sighs, turning his head away. He lets himself slump into his seat. “No. Okay, no.”

 “No?”

 “I don’t want things to be more public than they need to be. Don’t drag our shit in the spotlight even more,” Stiles finishes, his voice a tired brush against the air. Derek gives him a careful nod, and he too, turns back to the empty view in the windscreen.

 “I don’t know what else you want me to do,” he says.

 “I’m glad you believed me,” Stiles tells him. “After you finally fucking talked to me, you believed me, and that was a start – okay? And, and I hate your uncle so much and I don’t want to be mad at you because it’s just so exhausting, but right now I don’t want anything else from you.”

 Derek’s expression goes pained before turning carefully blank.

 “You can’t give me anything else right now but time,” Stiles says firmly. “Just let what happens happen, Derek.”

 Next to him, Derek nods. His eyes are cast down and his eyelashes press gently against his cheeks, dark over his skin. With a sigh Stiles gently starts the jeep up again and it’s minutes before they reach the dirt of the driveway. Warren is already slipping past the front door at the sound of the engine, Stiles’ wallet in hand.

 Derek’s eyes seem to glitter when he turns to Stiles. “I’m sorry people were terrible to you, I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he says quietly. “I’ll give you what you ask for.”

 He offers a small, sad smile to Stiles before he dips out of the car.

 “I –” Stiles darts out his hand to Derek’s lingering one, ready to speak, but his skin runs rough against the rings of tape and he hears a small hiss of pain. His words stop in his throat, hand hovering near Derek’s until he sees the fingers flex slightly as they rest in the air.

 Stiles takes in the damage to Derek’s bones and when he withdraws his hand, his fingertips run down the inside of Derek’s palm, almost accidentally.

 “Never mind,” he manages, his hand settling back on the wheel.

 Derek’s hand drops down without a word, and the slam of the jeep door jolts a breath into Stiles’ lungs. He watches Derek move towards the front door of his home, and it’s not a moment later when Warren knocks on his window.

 “Have any more car trouble?” he asks with a small smile.

 Stiles shakes his head. “Uh, no.”

 “Oh,” Warren says, a little glint in his eye. “Seemed to take a while for you two to get here.”

 “Right,” he says back, accepting his wallet through the window.

 “Stiles, I know that I don’t know you very well or understand the situation exactly, but I do know two things,” Warren tells him. “Derek cares about you, and you seem to still care about him. But please, let Derek know now if you don’t see any sort of future with him so he can begin to move on.”

 His throat goes dry but he manages a nod. Warren returns it with a smile, and honestly, as Stiles leaves he realises he’s completely in the dark about what he does want. He knows he hasn’t seen anything like a happy smile on Derek’s face for a long, long time but he knows that he wants to.

 He knows that the twinkle of cameras and lights will probably follow him the way it follows Derek if he says yes to any of this. He knows that Derek’s trust wavered once but that he’s painfully regretted it. Stiles knows that the next time he sees Derek, he’s not going to promise him anything. Not the lack of a future, nor the hint of one either.

**

 The soft trickle of a piano spreads through the house and Stiles can’t help but follow the careful sounds. Things seem a little on edge since the car ride, and Derek’s been careful about where he’s been when Stiles comes to the house.

 He follows the sound down the hallway, a dishcloth still in his hand as his ears take in the hesitant notes. It’s obvious who is playing, but Stiles lets his feet go to the source of the music anyway. He pushes the wooden door open fully and eyes the set of shoulders curved over the wide piano. The light pull of notes continue for a while longer before there’s a frustrated sigh and a harsh noise meets them both.

 “Derek?”

 There’s a sharp turn and Derek stills when he sees Stiles hovering by the door. His lips press together and his gaze shifts just past Stiles’.

 “Is it your hand?”

 He nods, letting out a hopeless sigh. “I – I can’t play my guitar properly. It’s driving me crazy. The piano is a little better.”

 Stiles looks down at his own fingers, fiddling with a loose thread in the cloth. “I only know twinkle, twinkle little star, otherwise I’d offer to play the other hand.”

 Derek raises an eyebrow. “Would you really?” his voice is dry.

 Stiles lets out a small sigh of exasperation. “Fine, I wouldn’t offer.” He can’t actually imagine sitting that close to Derek on the small seat, arms pressed together, the line of their thighs touching. Derek sits there, starting to look amused, and Stiles scowls.

 “You should get back to your cooking,” Derek tells him.

 “I should.”

 It’s only when Derek faces the black and white of the piano keys that he turns on his heel and strides back to the kitchen.

**

The giggles start quiet, a constant hum in the background of the supermarket before Stiles realises what he’s actually hearing. A shiver runs over his skin because he thought this was over, that people didn’t care about him anymore. He risks a glance over his shoulder, knocking a box of cereal off the shelf, but all he sees is a young boy and girl peering at him with wide eyes.

 They can’t be more than ten, so he tries his best to ignore them both. He goes to continue with his shopping, wondering if what was said and done will hang over him forever. He’s definitely not expecting it when he feels a small hand tug on the corner of his flannel shirt.

 Stiles turns and stares down at the girl, not bothering to smile politely back at her toothy grin.

 “Are you Stiles?” the girl asks, her curly hair a mess on her head.

 He blinks a little before he nods, throat suddenly dry. In his experience, kids’ words have always been the most biting, the least apologetic. But their eyes are bright and the girl giggles once more before what looks like her brother comes closer too.

 “Derek told us about you,” she says, matter of fact, her lip bitten.

 Stiles’ nostrils flare a little. “Has he now?” he asks, unsure where this is going. It’s not quite making sense in Stiles’ head, and something tells him it’s a little bit different from his usual encounters with strangers.

 The boy nods shyly, beginning to open his mouth but a large and presses on the kid’s shoulder and all three of them look past a forest green shirt to Derek’s slightly furrowed face.

 “I told you not to run away,” he growls softly to the kid, and when he makes eye contact with Stiles his expression turns sheepish. “Sorry.”

 “Are you trying to use kids to get on my good side?” Stiles throws at him.

 Derek blushes. “Not at all, they wanted to thank you.”

 “Thank me?” Stiles repeats blandly, and he holds Derek’s gaze for a little longer than necessary. He snaps his eyes away when the girl tugs on his shirt again, a small whine on her lips as she tries to get Stiles’ attention.

 “Thank you for making us the dinners. The chicken dish is my favourite,” she spills out, all in one breath, like she’s tried practicing it.

 It takes Stiles by surprise, being approached and being thanked instead of hearing accusations that he had to get used to. His heart thuds a few times over before a small smile begins to bloom on his face, eyes brightening and warmth expanding over his chest. He grins at the girl and her brother, bending his knees to drop to their level.

 On the way down, his eyes flit to Derek, and his pink lips have spread slightly.

 “You’re very welcome, my mother used to cook that one for me,” Stiles tells her, and now that she can she throws her arms around Stiles’ neck. Derek lets out a vaguely exasperated sort of noise when she whispers loudly in his ear.

 “Derek said you needed lots of hugs!”

 Stiles laughs, the tips of his ears growing hot. He avoids looking at Derek, and the brother says thank you but doesn’t want to hug Stiles despite his apparent need for them. He likes the chicken dish too. They run off, Derek checking over his shoulder that they stay in the aisle, and Stiles must be feeling rather generous because when Derek turns back he stands with a lingering smile.

 Derek pauses before he speaks, eyes falling over Stiles’ face. “I’ve been looking after them,” he explains. “They’re good kids, I like them, and their parents accept me helping out because they don’t feel bad about not paying me anything, unlike when Cora is there.”

 Stiles raises an eyebrow. Derek grits his teeth.

 “Anyway, childcare is expensive after school and normally you come around to the house in the afternoons. So, if I’m with the kids I can stay out of your way as much as possible,” he continues, scratching the beard at his cheek.

 “Derek, it’s your house.”

“Right.”

 Stiles picks up the box of cereal that fell to the floor when the silence gets too thin. He feels Derek blink at him, dipping his head a little. “Does that mean you don’t mind if I’m there?” he asks quietly.

 “I guess not,” Stiles shrugs, turning away. 

 Derek doesn’t say anything in return, choosing to step back with a slight nod. Stiles dips his head, watching from the corner of his eye as Derek strides away.

 He swears he’s seen Derek a lot more now than he ever did when they were actually together. There’s no tour, no long distant phone calls, and it’s a little sad that he gets so much of Derek now when what they were has slipped through open fingers.

 Derek ruffles the boy’s hair and rolls his eyes when the girl demands something from the shelf. Stiles misses seeing Derek at ease like that, comfortable with those kids, and he doesn’t let Derek know that he’s watching.

 “Bye Stiles!” the girl yells out, waving both her arms for attention. A few heads turn to stare, but Stiles grins and offers a wave of his own. It’s nice, knowing that Stiles is helping them. It will make it that much easier to get in his jeep and drive to the Hale house, whether Derek will be there or not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is okay! There are still things I want to try and address, but I could only do so much in one chapter. 
> 
> Uni has started again this week, so I've been settling in and it'll be why updates take forever. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone again for reading, commenting, and simply making it this far in the story. It's a lot longer than I originally expected it to be. 
> 
> I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	16. Chapter 16

 “I got the job,” Stiles says, sinking to the couch.

 Next to him Scott turns, pausing the game and face spreading into a grin. He knocks his shoulder against Stiles’ and gives a congratulatory pat to his knee. “That’s so good, man! You’ll be employed. That’s better than the rest of us.”

 Stiles turns to face him, letting the corners of his mouth tick up.  “It starts in a couple of weeks. I’ll be leaving Beacon Hills.” He gives into a moment of glee and damn satisfaction that he can start to do something with his life.

 Scott’s smile stays in place, nodding enthusiastically. He claps his friend on the shoulder, but his expression falters slightly when Stiles sighs and leans back into the couch, unsure.

 “Oh,” says Scott, catching on. “Are you going to tell Derek?”

 Stiles shrugs, noticing the way Scott stiffens beside him. They’re careful not to talk about Derek too much; it’s sort of a tough topic and as with Lydia, Scott likes to remind him of the months where Stiles went through hell. He was there, Scott reminds him, he saw everything.

 He doesn’t understand why Stiles is letting himself spend so much time with Derek.

 “I don’t know,” Stiles hesitates. “If I should tell him now or later.”

 “You don’t owe him anything,” Scott reminds him in a low voice.

 Stiles puts his head in his hands, feeling his skin itch with indecision. If he leaves, and he will leave – the job is everything he’s been waiting for – Derek won’t have a way to talk to him. They won’t ever get past what they are now, which is not very much, despite how heavy Stiles’ heart is.

 “I know,” Stiles says, voice clear. “I just thought, that maybe, if we were around each other it would be easier to sort things out.”

 “Do you want to sort things out?” asks Scott, “because I’m not ever going to sing high praises for him, Stiles. But I’ll shut my mouth up about it if you want me to.” He smiles crookedly. “I can’t say the same for Lydia.”

 Stiles groans, a piece of guilt shifting inside him. He hasn’t exactly talked to Lydia about how frequently he sees Derek. He hasn’t told her that he goes to his house a few times a week. He’s not sure how she would react, and it’s kind of nice being able to do things at his own pace, having Derek slowly come in from the edge of his life.

 “You haven’t told her everything, have you?” Scott says, eyebrows rising in judgement.

 Stiles offers a sheepish smile. “Not really.”

 “She might have something good to say,” he points out.

 “Probably,” Stiles admits, but he’s still plagued with hesitance. Should he tell Derek with the promise of keeping in touch? Or, should Stiles nod at him and leave things as they are? He doesn’t know, and he groans.

 Scott punches him in the side, happiness springing up again. “But you got the job!” he tells him.

 “Yeah, I did!” Stiles grins, pleased. He can finally get out of here; do something new where people hopefully don’t know him. He straightens and he’s excited, figuring that he can finally get a happy sort of experience away from home. Stiles will definitely miss his Dad, will definitely worry about him, but it’s nice having something new playing on the horizon.

 There’s a tight pull in his chest when he thinks of Derek though, and Stiles doesn’t know what will happen when he leaves.

 “Dude,” says Scott, reading his mind. “If you don’t want things to be over, just give him your number. It’s not that hard.”

 Stiles stares forward gloomily. “Isn’t that promising him something? What if I just want to be friends?”

 “You. Derek. Friends.”

 Stiles nods.

 Beside him, Scott sighs. “I don’t think you’ll ever be friends,” he says quietly.

 That’s probably true. Derek will always be someone that hooked himself into Stiles’ heart without the intention of letting go. Stiles doesn’t want him to let go, he wants at least something. If seeing Derek so often told him anything, that was it. It’s simply leaving Beacon Hills that makes things seem so complicated. Time is not something Stiles can keep a hold of. It’s slipping away.

 “What’s stopping you?” Scott asks him softly.

 “The privacy thing,” he replies automatically.

 His friend shrugs. “You already knew about that. You can’t change that.”

 Stiles sighs, rubbing his face again. “Fine,” he says. “I – that’s hard, but I suppose I could figure that out.”

 Scott waits, his silence prodding Stiles to answer.

 “What if he doesn’t trust me again, like, what if some magazine blows something out of proportion like it’s done to Derek so many times? And when it comes down to it, what if he’s still just going to think the worst of me?” Stiles says, frustration blooming under his skin.

 “I hate him,” Scott growls, nostrils flaring. He picks at a loose thread on his jeans, yanking it in an effort not to yell about Derek. Stiles knows that his friend doesn’t have to like what he chooses to do, but he knows Scott’s going to stick around anyway and Stiles is grateful for that. “Stiles, if you’re choosing to forgive him I sure as hell won’t.”

 Stiles shrugs.

 “You should talk to him.”

 Scott claps him on the shoulder and suggests that they go out for a celebratory drink to get his mind off things. He gets pulled to his feet, and on the way to the door he realises that he’d rather not lose Derek completely, even if it is complicated.

>> 

 The feeling gets cemented in him the next time he sees Derek. It’s early morning when he’s let into the house, hoping that Derek will be there. Laura’s at the door, biting her lip in surprise at seeing him so soon in the day. He shrugs at her and starts to set up everything in the kitchen.

 He’s busy preparing the meat when Derek walks in after his run. There are stains of sweat at the front of his shirt and over his back, and he pauses at seeing Stiles there.

 “Hi,” Stiles offers, heart beginning to speed up.

 “Hi.” Derek glances at the clock on the wall, still unsure, but he resumes his path to the cupboard and retrieves a glass. Stiles makes room for him near the sink, and they both listen to the strong stream of water out the tap.

 Derek’s still bandaged fingers curl gently at his headphones, he plucks them from his ear and lets them dangle across his shoulder. It’s a clear invitation to speak and Stiles eagerly takes it.

 “Listening to your own stuff?” he tries for teasing, but he’s not sure if he manages.

 He shakes his head. “I don’t do that.”

 “Sure,” Stiles rolls his eyes. Derek opens his mouth to protest, staring at Stiles with bright, questioning eyes.

 Derek drains down his water; discomfort settling in the air, and god, Stiles has made his decision. If, if he has to leave so soon he’s not going to throw Derek out of his life completely. He can’t bring himself to.

 “I should go shower,” Derek says, stopping himself from answering Stiles’ teasing.  His stance has gone careful and he places the empty glass in the sink. Stiles bites his lip, watching as Derek leaves.

 He faces the meat again, prodding it a little with his fingers. Derek doesn’t come back down after he showers, and a tugging want fills Stiles’ chest. Stiles needs Derek here, now, while they still have time. He’s sick of the space Derek’s giving him, even though he asked for it.

>> 

 His footsteps are slow when he gets upstairs, hand trailing along the edge of the dark wallpaper. Little light falls into the hallway, but the handle at the end of the passage gleams slightly. It’s the only door shut, and Stiles’ fingers quiver as he brings himself over and knocks faintly on the wood.

 There’s a bit of rustling and Stiles forgets to step back when the door opens. He swallows, throat tight, when a stretch of skin falls from his view as Derek pulls down a blue shirt. Stiles stares up at him.

 “I need help with something,” he stutters. Derek gives a quick nod, licking his lips.

 Stiles forces his gaze away when his heart jolts, and sees masses of paper littering Derek’s floor. Bits of ink stare out at him and he recognises the handwritten scripts of music, sees the blocks of verses on the paper.

He looks up, a little awed. “How much do you write?”

 Derek shrugs, the round of his cheeks going slightly red. He slides out of his bedroom, pulling the door tight behind him. “Um,” he says, chest not far from Stiles’. “You know my habits.”

 Stiles blinks, remembering. He can’t bring himself to say anything and instead begins to move along the hall, Derek not far behind. He rubs his neck, feeling the light weight of Derek’s gaze on his back. Stiles swears, swears he can feel how close Derek is to him, but when he turns around Derek is a careful distance away.

 “I just need another pair of hands to help drain this,” Stiles tells him, pointing to the liquid pooling underneath the chicken. “I don’t want the meat falling out as I tip the pan.”

 Derek looks at his fingers. “I’ll try my best.” His hands hover upwards, a resigned smile on his face. Stiles spots the fading colour of tape, and clearing his throat, he gestures to it.

 “Is it getting better?”

 “Yes,” he says quietly. “I’ve been seeing a doctor and she’s been giving me exercises to do.”

 “That’s good,” whispers Stiles, and it’s quiet again. He hears the sound of the hot chicken sizzling, hears his own breath, and he feels how awfully close Derek is when the man leans over to reach for some utensils. When Derek pulls back, his eyes flutter towards Stiles’ open lips, but he turns abruptly to the kitchen counter.

 Derek gestures to the chicken almost impatiently. With a faint scowl, Stiles slips his hands into a pair of oven gloves and takes hold of the grill. Derek has to come close, the heat of his shoulder pressing gently into Stiles’ arm.

 Steam rises in front of them and warms their faces. Stiles can’t help but glance at Derek beside him and he sees the line of his nose and the curve of his jaw. He almost fumbles when Derek catches him looking and his ears tinge red as Stiles brings his focus back to the chicken.

 “Anything else?” Derek asks, hopeful.

 Stiles’ eyes roam around the kitchen, searching for something Derek can do. There’s nothing, and he stares back at Derek with a blank expression and a small shrug.

 “Of course not,” Derek says quickly, voice a little strained. “Sorry.”

 He heads back up to his room before Stiles can stop him.

 >>

 He sends the text before he can convince himself not to. The light of his phone goes dull while he waits for a reply, feeling on edge as he hears Derek move around upstairs. Half an hour ago Derek had come in from his run, sweat dripping down his temple and over his upper lip.

 Stiles had smiled politely when Derek fetched himself a glass of water, and he had watched the movement of his throat after Derek brought the cup to his lips. Derek had stared at him a little, had offered a small greeting to Stiles between his sips.

 The sound of the shower stopped a few minutes ago and everything in Stiles’ head swims. For his text he had settled for something completely stupid, it’s stupid, and he certainly feels that way as he waits for Derek to pick up his phone.

He can’t exactly take too much back after this. With the deadline on his time in Beacon Hills hovering near, he has to at least try and reach out. Stiles doesn’t miss a lot of things, but he craves the feeling of having Derek close, having them both happy.

 It’s ten minutes before he gets a reply.

_The top_ _right hand cupboard._

 Stiles’ breathy is shaky when he looks to his phone, not sure what he expected. He goes to the cupboard and tries to search for the bottle of sauce.

  _Not there._

 Relief spreads through him when he hears the soft step of feet down the stairs. Derek’s hair is dark and damp, his fresh white shirt clinging around his shoulders.

 “Are you really too lazy to come upstairs and ask me yourself?” Derek asks, cautious. He sweeps past Stiles, unwilling to make eye contact as he bends over to look in the cupboard.

 Stiles clears his throat. When Derek rises he gives him a pointed look, staring down at the phone still held in Derek’s hand. Derek stands straight, chest rising and eyes sharp as they meet Stiles’. He swallows and glances at the phone too.

 “Okay,” he says through a soft breath, things locking into place for him.

 Stiles turns away and begins to slice through layers of onion. His eyes are stinging a little and Derek’s still in the kitchen, a statue, as he figures out that he’s not imagining anything. “So,” Stiles asks. “The sauce?”

 Derek coughs and begins to move around again. With a small smile, a few seconds later he places the bottle on the edge of the bench. “Anything else?”

 Stiles shakes his head in return, feeling his cheeks heat up a little at Derek’s hopeful tone. They both have each other’s numbers now, and while it’s a start, it’s not everything. It’s definitely a step away from bitterness. Derek heads back up the stairs then, and Stiles can hear the way he skips a step when he bounds up.

 He wonders what he’s doing. Stiles can hear what his friends might say, can imagine what they’re thinking. They’d question letting Derek in, but it’s hard when he sees Derek all the time now. It’s hard. And at this point, Stiles doesn’t think he could stay away if he tried.

>> 

 Derek’s words are sill hesitant, but when he hovers in the doorway he’ll often smirk or roll his eyes when Stiles says something stupid. Stiles shoves small tasks at him, and obligingly Derek slips into the seat behind the counter top.

 Opposite him Derek’s hazel eyes are soft, and he spends far too much time looking up at Stiles instead of grating cheese into a bowl. Derek’s sister drops in one morning, amused by the situation, and she claps her brother on the shoulder.

 “Finally,” Cora drawls as she exits the kitchen.

 Derek stays quiet, finishes with the cheese and sets the bowl aside. “Don’t listen to her. I still don’t expect anything from you.”

 Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Derek, she hasn’t scared me away yet.”

 “Even so,” he says seriously. “I know that just because you gave me your number it doesn’t –”

 “He gave you his number?” they hear Cora yell from the next room.

 Derek grits his teeth, ignoring the sound of her poorly concealed celebration. “It’s not a promise. I get that.”

 Stiles drops his gaze.

 “Though,” Derek asks carefully, “I’d be interested to know what made you give it to me.”

 Stiles gives a little shrug back, unwilling to answer. He asked Derek for time, that’s all he asked for, but they have little of it left. That’s why.

 Derek gives a small smile at Stiles’ silence and looks down at his hands. Sadness taints his expression, and Stiles wipes his hands on his jeans before he speaks.

   “What?” he manages, and when Derek’s head snaps up, mouth open slightly, Stiles wishes he had never asked.

 “I miss you,” Derek finally says. His words are stripped and honest.

 Stiles’ nostrils flare and in his throat there’s a tight ache. He turns his body, shoulders blocking his peripheral view of Derek. He picks up the smooth handle of a wooden spoon and begins to stab at the thick mixture in the glass bowl before him.

 “Stiles – I,” Derek starts, eyes searching wildly over the edge of Stiles’ face.

 “No,” interrupts. “No, no, no. Don’t tell me you miss me, Derek, I can’t. I can give you my number, just please, don’t tell me that.”

 Derek straightens. “Why can’t I say that?”

 Stiles narrows his eyes, twisting around and dropping his voice low because they’re not the only ones in the house. The beginnings of determination drift over Derek’s eyes, and he stares at Stiles, expecting him to answer.

 “Because,” Stiles tries to say. “I – it’s too complicated.” ~~~~

 Derek’s look is hopeless. “Then talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong, I can try and fix it.”

 A pause fills the air, and it’s too much. He has, he has to bring up what’s been bothering him for so long. What still hurts, and what had hurt the most.

 “Why didn’t you trust me?” Stiles asks, fingers threading through themselves.

 “I trust you,” he replies quietly.

 Stiles lets out a broken laugh, stepping forward and palms reaching out to Derek. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to see him so much. Stiles grips Derek’s arms so that he stands, and he turns the man by the shoulders. His palms press against his Derek’s back to get him to move and Derek goes willingly enough to the door, but at the last moment he turns around.

Stiles drops his hands so that he’s not petting Derek’s chest. A shiver runs through him when Derek’s intent gaze lingers over his face and drops to his lips for such a brief moment that Stiles isn’t sure it happened.

 “You didn’t answer my question,” Stiles says in a hard voice. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

 “It was a mistake that I’m not going to make again,” Derek almost growls at him. “I, I love you, okay? I love you. I wish I hadn’t done what I did, but I can’t change it. I can show you how much I trust you now.”

 “Go away, Derek,” Stiles says at him.

 Derek doesn’t leave, and Stiles doesn’t move away.  The air feels charged and they stare right at each other, Stiles’ own narrowed eyes falling across every inch of Derek’s face. His fingers twitch and he wishes he could move forward, pull Derek near or at least have the presence of mind to step back.

 Derek raises an eyebrow, his lips resting in a smile small that verges on playful. His weight sinks onto one foot when he realises Stiles isn’t going to move away anytime soon. “I thought we were getting better –”

 “I trusted you when it counted,” Stiles interrupts.

 “I know,” Derek says.

 Stiles glares, a small twist of heat rising up from his core. He doesn’t want to have to deal with this, not at all, and the way Derek stands there with a hint of regret in his eyes makes it all the more harder.

 “You’re impossible,” Stiles tells him. He shoves Derek from the narrow doorway, a prickle of anger starting up in his toes. Before Stiles throws the door shut he sees Derek’s faint smile, and it’s so easy to see that Derek does miss him, does miss the way they were together.

 Stiles rests his forehead against the door, listening for when Derek eventually moves away.

  _Sorry_ Derek texts him from upstairs.

 Stiles rolls his eyes and doesn’t reply.

>> 

 Derek’s careful when he comes into the kitchen the next time Stiles is there. The days are edging closer to Stiles’ departure and he still hasn’t told Derek or Talia that he’s leaving. It’s probably not the best thing to do, keeping them from the truth, but it keeps him in some kind of limbo where he doesn’t have to make a full and proper decision.

 He’s been exchanging emails with his new workplace’s management, trying to find contacts for places to stay in New York. Someone at the station has a friend looking for a roommate, and carefully Stiles has been talking with them.

 “You can come in, you know,” Stiles says gloomily, stirring the sauces.

 “Thanks,” Derek replies dryly. He falls to a seat and starts helping himself to a piece of fruit. “What’s wrong?”

 Stiles shrugs and automatically shoves something in Derek’s vicinity. He can chop the onions this time. “It’s nothing.”

 Derek eyes him carefully but lets it drop. They sit in comfortable silence and work on the food, occasionally glancing at each other. Stiles thinks he may miss the simplicity of this, of being here with Derek. He doesn’t want to lose it, and being apart is going to make things a lot harder, even with a phone number.

 He’s scattered from his thoughts when Talia comes into the room.

 “Stiles!” she says brightly, “I heard you met the Taylor family at the supermarket the other day.”

 “Yeah, I did. Just the kids, though. It was nice.”

 “They’re coming over for dinner on Friday,” she tells him. “Would you like to come?”

 “Uh,” Stiles’ eyes search between mother and son. Derek carefully brings his gaze up, and Stiles can see him trying not to look too eager. “Here?”

 Talia nods and Stiles attempts to consider attending a full family dinner with the Hales. Somehow it feels a bit much, yet he can’t stand the idea of wasting time that could be spent around Derek, especially not when he’s leaving so soon.

 “Can Scott come?” he blurts out.

 Derek stiffens in his seat.

 “Scott?” Talia asks.

 “His friend,” Derek says quietly, looking down again and resuming his kitchen task.

 “Oh,” says Talia, she seems to count under her breath. “That will be eleven people.”

 “I can help cook,” Stiles offers too quickly.

 Talia clears her throat. “Well. That’s nice of you, Stiles, but you’re always cooking. I thought I’d give you a break. But your friend can come, if,” she glances at her son, “if it’s okay with you, Derek.”

 Derek shrugs, shoulders knotted tight. “I don’t mind.”

 It’s settled, and Stiles tries to catch Derek’s eye to offer him a silent thank you at letting Scott come. Derek keeps his gaze away, the back of his neck flushed, and when he finishes with the onions he goes back upstairs. Stiles sighs, but he’s happy Scott can come. With his friend he’ll feel better, more comfortable.

>> 

 “Nice to meet you, Scott,” Talia says when she opens the door.

 Scott’s expression is hard but he replies politely, shooting Stiles a sideways look when they enter the house. There’s a buzz under Stiles’ skin as he waits for Derek to appear and for Scott to spot him too. His friend has promised to be cordial, but Stiles knows that Scott hasn’t forgotten his anger.

 “Would you relax?” Scott growls quietly in his ear. “It’s going to be fine.”

 “Don’t be mean,” Stiles pleads. “Don’t make it awkward.”

 Scott raises his eyebrows, trying not to laugh. “It’s already awkward, Stiles.”

 The kitchen is busy but Derek is not there. Stiles leaves Scott with Cora, and nervously slips up the stairs. Just as he reaches Derek’s bedroom door it swings open, and a startled Derek stares back at him.

 “I thought you were maybe Laura,” he stutters.

 Derek looks pale, biting his lip and turning his head away. Stiles raises an eyebrow, and a smile pulls at the corner of his lips.

 “Are you hiding?” Stiles asks. “From Scott?”

 Derek huffs, but doesn’t deny.

 “Dude,” Stiles teases. “He promised to be decent. I wouldn’t have brought him otherwise.”

 Behind Derek his room is in darkness, and Stiles tries to get their eyes to meet. He inches nearer, only guessing what Derek is expecting from Scott, and Stiles wants his hesitance to fade at least a little.

 “Come downstairs,” he says softly. “No one will bite. Those kids you like so much will be here soon, anyway.”

 Derek finally gives Stiles a hard look and when he turns back around his face is a lot closer than Stiles anticipated. The hallway is empty, dimly lit so that shadows are cast over the edge of Derek’s stubble. Stiles blinks and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

 “I’ll try my best to behave as well,” Derek says dryly, his eyes almost glowing in the lack of light.

 There’s a pause, and the air becomes quiet as Stiles looks back at him. Their feet shuffle over the carpet when Derek pulls his bedroom door shut, their chests knocking when Derek’s forced to step forward.

 “Sorry,” mumbles Stiles, still forgetting to step back.

 He swallows and they hear chatter starting up downstairs, along with the sounds of two young kids at the door. “Let’s go,” Derek says, eyeing him. He holds out his hand and gestures to the stairs.

 “I know the way,” Stiles tells him, knocking his hand aside. His breath falters when their skin touches, and when their hands both drop to their sides their fingers are somehow hooked together. Stiles’ lungs feel heavy.

 Derek’s gaze drops and his lips part. A pleasant hum starts through Stiles’ body as Derek’s thumb hovers over his skin. Derek blinks at him, eyes darkening under his eyelashes and Stiles can’t help himself.

 He forgets about what they’re doing and where they are, and he cups Derek’s face, letting their lips meet.

 Derek’s lips part in surprise, his warm breath falling over Stiles’ mouth. Stiles quickly realises what he’s doing and starts to pull away, fingers trailing down the edge of Derek’s stubble. Stiles’ hands quiver as he moves back, but he hears a small whine of frustration and Derek’s mouth is chasing his and then they’re kissing in the hallway of Derek’s home.

 Stiles feels dizzy and light, letting a wide hand spread across his back to pull him near. Derek’s lips are soft and insistent, and Stiles grips Derek tighter for a moment, melting into him and forcing the quick slide of their lips into something harder, wetter, and god, he’s missed this, he wants this, he wants Derek – and now Stiles pushes him away.

 Horrified, Stiles’ eyes are wide as he stares back at Derek. Derek’s eyes flicker open and he looks completely out of it; mirroring what Stiles is feeling except there’s warmth and hope in Derek’s eyes instead of the wild jolt of panic that’s in Stiles’.

 “Shit, god, uh,” Stiles stammers, looking around fretfully. “We, I should go. God.”

 He moves out of Derek’s space and the man flinches, readily becoming a statue. Stiles has to snatch himself away before he does anything else so, so stupid. He refuses to look at Derek’s red, hung open lips and his heart hammers wildly under his chest. God, what did he do that for? That, that wasn’t letting things go at their own pace; that was ruining every careful step Stiles had been trying to make.

 He turns and almost crashes into Laura. Stiles jumps back and his body hits Derek’s again, feeling the warm stretch of his chest. Arms move tight around him as he stumbles backward and Stiles is caught between pressing himself further back into Derek and moving as far as he can away.

 “The kids are asking for you both,” Laura says brightly, unaware of the panic crawling down Stiles’ arms. Derek’s hands are rough when he forces Stiles upright.

 Stiles clears his throat. “Um, yes, coming.”

 He follows her downstairs and doesn’t so much look back at Derek. His lungs and cheeks feel like they’re burning and his thoughts are all over the place. His heart refuses to settle and Stiles can hear his pulse thudding through his ears. God, god.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you all liked it. We're almost there:) Look forward to an awkward meal next time. 
> 
>    
> I am also on [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


	17. Chapter 17

 Stiles’ face is hot. His lungs feel close to collapsing and all he can see is a flash of Derek’s hurt face in his head. He lets Laura drag him to the front door where the Taylor family have just come in. All their names go over Stiles’ head because he’s still thinking about Derek, still thinking about the warm press of his body.

 It scares him a little that a kiss can promise so much. Stiles isn’t ready to jump into something where they’re not going to be around each other. It’s physically impossible for him to let himself be with someone he’s not going to get to see. Not anymore, not when things are supposed to be healing.

 The kids’ grins are wide and he’s almost knocked backwards when the little girl runs up and hugs his legs. Her brother rolls his eyes and her parents laugh, shrugging off their thin jackets before reaching out to shake Stiles' and Scott’s hand.

 “Dude,” says Scott when they’re moving away from the door. “Don’t leave me alone here, it’s weird.”

 Stiles looks up at him, wanting to say something, anything that could possibly convey how lost and terrible he feels. It’s the mixture of emotions that’s doing his head in, and he just needs someone to goddamn understand what’s going on in his fucking head. He opens his mouth to speak but a small figure bursts past them and to the foot of the stairs.

 “Hi Gracie,” they hear, and they both twist around to see Derek getting attacked by a flop of curls. Scott stiffens beside Stiles, his chest out and jaw square. Stiles’ lips part and he keeps his eyes just shy of Derek’s.

 Gracie tugs Derek away from the stairs and Derek’s shoulders are ridden with tension, holding strong as he attempts to walk straight past Stiles and Scott.

 Scott clears his throat. “Hello Derek,” he says pointedly, folding his arms. Derek stills and lets go of Gracie’s hand. She bounds away happily and leaves Derek to turn to them. Stiles’ breath catches when Derek takes a few short steps forward, lips in a hard line and teeth clenched shut.

 His eyes rake carefully over Scott, face not far from a glare. Scott drops his mouth open in disbelief at Derek’s cold and rough exterior. He does not look at Stiles.

 Stiles stares at the floor, wanting to slide into the dining room because at least there will be other people there that can distract him from this sick feeling in his stomach. Silence stands between the three of them as they wait for Derek’s reply, and the longer they linger in the hallway, the more Stiles can feel a hot flush spread at his neck.

 They hear someone’s footsteps draw near and Stiles eagerly snaps his head up to look at Warren. “Son,” he says to Derek, clapping him on the shoulder. “Say hello.”

 “Hi Scott,” Derek finally manages, and just as Scott opens his mouth again Derek quickly steps past and moves into the dining room.

 “Well,” says Scott loudly. “That was –”

 “Scott,” Stiles hisses, hitting his arm. Scott glares back at him, rubbing his arm and he begins to mutter under his breath. Warren stands next to them, eyebrows raised in amusement before Stiles is dragging his friend by the sleeve. He tries with a look to get Scott to keep his mouth shut.

 As soon as they enter the dining area, Cora gives him a sly look and bounds over. She pulls at Stiles’ arm and leads him towards the table. “You’re sitting here, Stiles,” she smiles sweetly. “Scott is next to you and little Gracie is on your other side.”

 With a sigh he lets Cora manoeuvre him to his seat and she forces him to sit. He keeps quiet while everyone else gets seated, his mind still frazzled while he listens to their chatter. Cora brightens when she spots her brother lurking at the edge of the room and she pushes him around until he plops down directly in front of Stiles.

 Derek’s look is hard when they stare at each other. Stiles’ heart stops beating for a moment and it’s him that turns his head away, aware of what he looked like when he pushed Derek from him, his eyes full of panic and obvious regret. Stiles grabs a roll of bread and immediately begins to pick at it, keeping his gaze away from the hard set of Derek’s jaw.

 Scott begins to question Derek with a sharp and quiet voice. At the other end of the table the adults sit and leave them pretty much alone, sipping their wine. Stiles can’t help himself from glancing over at Derek every so often, but all he sees is a flickering anger and hurt between his stilted, one word replies to Scott’s questions. Stiles doesn’t help him, and he’s too much of a coward to make his friend stop with his apparently polite words.

 Stiles feels a small hand tug on his arm and his eyes flick between Gracie and her brother Ben who sits opposite her and next to Derek. He gives a weak smile, and her glare is wide with frustration about being left out of Scott’s interrogation.

 “Hi,” he croaks at her.

 She gives him a satisfied smile now that she has his attention. “Did you know that Derek started to teach me the guitar?” she says excitedly. Stiles swallows and tries not to glance at Derek.

 “Uh, I didn’t know that. How are you going?”

 She frowns. “Ben is better at it than I am.” Across the table Ben gives Stiles a nervous smile.

 “Probably because your brother is more patient,” her mother interjects and Gracie scowls.

 “Do you know how to play the guitar?” she asks Stiles loudly.

 He shakes his head.

 “Maybe Derek can teach you,” Ben says shyly. “He’s a good teacher.”

 The corner of the table goes silent and Stiles feels something tug in his chest. Stiles brings himself to look at Derek. Derek looks back, but he dips his head, unwilling to comment and unwilling to hold Stiles’ gaze for too long. Stiles was the one to leave him upstairs, he was the one to run away, clearly not wanting anything to do with Derek.

 He looks on, guilt pulling at him. Derek starts talking to Ben who normally seems unwilling to speak, but his eyes start to sparkle and he begins to nod enthusiastically at whatever Derek is saying. Scott kicks him under the table, and flushing, Stiles returns to his food.

 “So, Stiles,” comes Mrs Taylor’s voice. “I’ve heard that you’ve recently completed your degree?”

 “Yes, yeah,” begins Stiles, aware of the whole table stopping their talk so that they can listen to him. “I have an arts degree.”

 She smiles and starts to open her mouth, eyes attentive.

 “Stiles got that job,” interrupts Scott, blurting the words out across the table. An air of confusion settles over at least half the people present, all coming to stare at him. Stiles swallows, inwardly cursing Scott.

 “What?” Derek’s voice is quiet, unsure, and he’s finally looking up at Stiles as he breaks the table’s silence.

 Stiles clears his throat and avoids Derek’s eye. Derek doesn’t look so angry anymore, just a little defeated and sad. The rest of the table turn to Stiles expectantly, and a light blush begins to fall over his cheeks.

 “Um, yeah. I got the job. I only found out for sure at the end of last week.”

 “Oh,” says Talia. Her words are stilted as she glances at her son. “Congratulations, Stiles. When are you leaving?”

 “In just over a week,” he mumbles, dropping his hands to his lap. “Um, sorry. I should’ve told you sooner, I guess.” He glares at Scott who has the decency to deflate a little in his seat. “I hope this doesn’t disrupt your cooking programme too much.”

 Gracie blinks beside him before slamming her glass down and grabbing at Stiles’ arm. She shakes him almost violently for a small girl, and her eyebrows knit together as she frowns at him. “Does this mean you’re not going to cook for us anymore?” she demands.

 Stiles splutters. “I guess not.”

 He can feel Derek’s heavy stare linger on his face.

 “That’s fine, Stiles,” Talia says tightly. “None of us expected you to stay here forever.”

 “Some of us wanted you to, though,” Cora mutters, but she’s quickly silenced by a stern look from her father and Derek shrinks in his seat. Everyone at the table begins to eat again, cutlery scraping strong against plates.

 “But we like your cooking!” Gracie whines, starting to kick up a fuss. Ben nods opposite her, starting to agree with his sister and Scott looks guiltily at his plate.

 “Gracie, Ben, quiet,” says their father and their words stop immediately. He turns to Stiles. “Don’t worry about it, we’re here to say thank you to you regardless of how long you’re able to cook for our family. We’re not going to keep you from new opportunities for the sake of a cooking programme. We’ll manage.” Mrs Taylor nods beside him.

 The knot in Stiles’ stomach loosens a bit, and he can feel Gracie shuffling slightly away from him. She wears a pout and Stiles can’t help but think he’s screwed up a little bit here. He can feel it with how careful the air is, with how unwilling people are to make eye contact with him. Derek has gone back to stabbing his food miserably.

“What’s your job, Stiles?” Cora says politely, breaking the silence.

 “Um,” he says. “My degree doesn’t uh, guarantee much, but I’m going to be working in a training environment. Learn how employees interact with customers and then I’ll help those interactions play out a little bit smoother. Know your customer and all that. They want me to take a few extra courses while I’m there before I start.”

 “That’s cool,” she tells him. “Where is your job going to be?”

 “Uh,” he brings his glass to his lips and swallows some water. “It’s in New York.

 There’s another stretch of silence before Laura pipes up. “Derek has an apartment in New York.”

 “What?” Stiles falters. He didn’t, well, he didn’t know that.

 “Yes,” Laura says more clearly. “When he’s not touring or doing promotional work, he’s there. Except now, obviously.”

 “Oh.”                            

 Scott kicks his leg again under the table. His eyes flash with warning, telling him not to get too lost with this new piece of information. Stiles doesn’t even know how he didn’t know where Derek lived the rest of the time. He may have assumed it was Beacon Hills. It just goes to show the little communication skills they had when they were together.

 He stabs at his food, eyes glazing over as a burning new set of circumstances wash over him. Derek adjusts his position in his seat and his foot knocks into Stiles’ knee for a brief second. A spread of warmth starts to travel through him, but it’s quickly broken by the set of disappointment and hurt that sits at Derek’s shoulders. When Derek searches Stiles’ face he doesn’t seem to find anything.

>> 

 Gracie warms up to him by the end of the evening, hugging his knees and giving a dramatic sniff when they’re about to go home. Stiles bends down and gives her a soft smile.

 “Tell you what,” he says. “I’ll give Derek’s Mum the chicken dish recipe and then I’ll make sure she passes it on to your Mum or Dad, okay?

 Gracie eyes him for a second, sceptical, before she’s throwing her arms around Stiles’ shoulders. He tries not to fall backwards and he pats her back. He waves at Ben who holds his mother’s hand, and he gives Stiles a small wave back.

 When Stiles stands, Scott is already next to him and Warren leads them to the door. He’s smiling, but it’s missing the warmth it usually holds. Stiles' voice stutters as he thanks Derek’s father for the meal, and when he steps down the porch he constantly looks over his shoulder, except there’s not a glimpse of Derek to be seen.

 The front door closes and Stiles groans. Fuck. Fuck, he’s an idiot. They head to the jeep and Stiles feels something twisting inside of him, not easing when they edge away from the Hale property. Scott shuffles in his seat.

 “Sorry, man. I shouldn’t have told everyone that you got the job.”

 “It’s fine,” Stiles says stiffly. “I should’ve said something sooner.”

 He drives on for a bit, but in an instant he can’t take it anymore. His knee begins to jerk up and down, and he resists the urge to bang his head on the steering wheel until after he pulls to the side of the road.

 “Um,” Scott clears his throat. “Stiles?”

 “Scott, I messed up, I messed up,” he groans, feeling extremely unsettled. It takes a moment before he even has the courage to look his friend in the eye.

 Scott pauses. “I’m sure everything will be fine, Stiles. So what you’re going to be in the same city? New York is huge. And, and, you don’t owe Derek anything. He shouldn’t get too angry at you for not telling him things sooner. I mean, I obviously thought you should’ve said something but –”

 Stiles glares at him and bites his lip hard. His eyes begin to prickle just as his throat starts to feel tight. He stares at Scott until his friend seems to realise there’s something else going on.

 “What did you do?” Scott asks carefully.

 “I kissed him.”

 “What? When?”

 “Right before dinner,” he mutters, turning away. “And then I ran as fast as I fucking could.”

 He hears Scott sigh, but it’s not full of judgement. Stiles thinks his friend gets it, thinks he understands that he can’t fucking stay away from Derek anymore. That he’s here, and Stiles wants him so much now that things can happen on terms Stiles can be happy with.

 “He’s actually going to be in fucking New York, Scott,” he buries his face in his hands and mumbles against his sleeves.

 “Is this why he was being a bit of a dick at dinner? ‘Cause, I mean, if he wants to be with you he should treat your friends a little better.”

 Stiles gives him a dirty look before sighing. “Scott, what the hell am I supposed to do? I messed up. He’s been trying, been doing everything I asked. And, I think he gets it, he gets what he did or didn’t do and he was just there and he’s Derek and ...” he trails off.

 “Does he make you happy, Stiles?”

 He looks up at Scott’s soft words. Stiles feels his heart stutter and his breath falls away from him. “I think he will.”

 “Then go talk to him.”

>> 

 The cool air seems to clear his mind slightly when he steps out of the jeep, close to the edge of the Hale property. Scott looks him directly in the eye and tells him to ring if he needs anything. Stiles shrugs, his insides playing a game of war inside him and he slams the car door shut before starting the trek to the house.

 The front door is unlocked and Stiles’ hand quivers before he twists the handle and steps through. He can hear the quiet sounds of people in the kitchen and feels a little guilty for sneaking in, but the only person he wants to see right now is Derek.

 He keeps his footsteps quiet and trails down the hall before knocking gently on Derek’s door. Stiles only has to wait a few seconds before the door swings open. Before him Derek’s face gently morphs into an unsettled anger.

 “What are you doing here?” Derek snaps, yanking Stiles in by the shirt and closing the door quickly. Stiles scowls at the abrupt movement, straightening his clothes before glaring right back. Derek deflates slightly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, Stiles, but I thought you were above leading me on for nothing.”

 Stiles’ mouth drops open and he steps away, trying to avoid the pieces of paper over the ground. He stares back at Derek, unsure, and pulls at his hair before he speaks. “I wasn’t – Derek! Look, I had no fucking clue what I was doing, okay? I was figuring out where I wanted you in my life. I didn’t know if I wanted to be just friends with you, not even that, or be something more. I was still figuring it out.”

 Derek doesn’t look very sympathetic.

 “I didn’t want to jump into a long distance relationship with you so soon, when we’re still building things up again. I was just trying to be careful, because it’s not you, Derek, it’s your lifestyle and the fact we’d be apart when things were still healing. Just because I love you, it doesn’t make it easy. I didn’t know there was another option,” he finishes quietly.

 He hears Derek inhale.

 “Just because you’ve found what you call another option, doesn’t mean you can just kiss me and then look like it was the worst possible thing you could’ve done,” he snaps.

 “Sorry, I panicked,” Stiles says sheepishly, running a hand over his face.

 “I could tell.”

 Stiles is not sure what else he should say. He could tell Derek that they’d never be just friends, he could say sorry for acting so stupidly about all this. He could say how he wished things could have been different, except, they are how they are and if they want to fix things they have to accept how it is. He takes a shaky breath and waits for Derek to talk.

 “You could’ve just talked to me about all this,” Derek says flatly. “I thought you were always telling me to talk about it. You could’ve saved yourself some distress.”

 “Yeah,” Stiles admits. “Yeah.”

 “Do you really love me?” Derek asks quietly.

 Stiles splutters, looks up. “What?” he asks faintly.

 “Never mind,” Derek says through his teeth.

 Stiles strides forward, until he’s hovering just away. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah. It’s just always been a little bit more complicated than that.”

 Derek sighs, eyes not meeting Stiles’. He seems to have to force the words out. “So,” he clears his throat. “Now that you know we’re going to be in the same city, and I’m not on tour and I don’t have an album to promote yet, what, what do you want to do?”

 He pauses, looking up at Derek with wide eyes. Derek begins to push him away when he doesn’t answer, and Stiles can feel his trembling fingers.

 “Stiles... please.”

 “I want,” he starts. “I want to be with you. But take things slow. I want to take things slow.”

 Derek's head darts up, looking wary. “Slow?” he confirms and Stiles nods eagerly.

 “That’s why I came back, Derek,” he whispers.

 He sees the start of a smile on Derek’s lips, and his eyes are so intent that they burn small little holes in his pupils. The light catches there as Derek leans forward slightly.

 “Does,” Derek says carefully, turning his head and letting his nose align with Stiles’. “Does slow still mean I can kiss you right now?”

 Stiles’ smile is full. “Yeah, yeah you can –”

 Derek leans forward and catches Stiles’ lips gently with his own, letting the underside of his thumb run under Stiles’ chin. He pulls back and Stiles frowns, wanting Derek near, but Derek has his eyes open and his hand slides gently over Stiles’ hip, watching him carefully like he’s afraid Stiles is going to run away again.

 Stiles fights back an exasperated sigh and with the sound of their breaths on the air, Stiles’ hands gently push Derek back until he hits the wall. Paper crinkles under their shoes and their lips hover near each other, just brushing as Stiles’ heart starts to play up. Stiles crowds closer to Derek, anticipation building up around them as arms pull him closer, tighter, so that they’re hip to hip and nose against nose. Stiles’ hands quiver at how new and raw it feels, his eyes close – and then he presses in.

 It’s magnetic. He feels a warmth start just below his ribs, spreading out until Derek’s lips venture away from hesitant. The wall keeps them upright as Stiles leans into Derek, kissing him slow and easy. Stiles pulls back and rests his forehead against Derek’s, breathing heavy.

 “Hey,” Stiles whispers.

 Derek lets out a noise that’s half breathless and half full of content. His hand cups Stiles’ jaw and his thumb runs across his cheek, over and over again. He kisses Stiles once more, quick; holding him near before Stiles steps away and almost loses his balance.

 “Stay?” Derek asks.

 Stiles nods and begins to kick off his shoes. Derek smiles, eyes bright and he shrugs off his jacket.  Sitting on the bed, he licks his lips and leaves a wide space for Stiles to settle onto.

 “Do the rest of them know you’re here?”

 Stiles shakes his head and moves next to Derek. It’s a little awkward and they’re not sure what they both want to do. He sees Derek’s hand move out to touch him, but he stops before there’s any contact. Stiles can still feel his heart working too hard, and almost shakily, he decides to scoot back into Derek’s pillows. He drags Derek up with him so that they sit shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, and their ankles cross.

After a moment, he feels Derek relax beside him.

 “I,” starts Derek. “I don’t want to hide you, or us, but tell me what you want me to do and we’ll do it.”

 Stiles rolls his head onto Derek’s shoulder, trying to snatch at the heat of Derek’s body. He takes his time to answer, feeling the words settle inside his mouth before he speaks. “I don’t want anyone to know but my family and yours. If you’re close with Erica, maybe her? If you’d like. Just. I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t do anything more yet.”

 Derek nods, inching his hand towards Stiles so that their fingers link together. Stiles shoves him at his hesitance before taking it, lifting his head so he can kiss the corner of Derek’s lips. “You’re ridiculous,” he mumbles.

 “So are you.”

 Stiles snorts. “Any of the songs on the floor for me?”

 “They’re not worth hearing,” Derek is quick to say.

 He pauses. “You’ll let me hear your songs before you release them, right?” His voice rises, off and unsure. Derek’s fingers thread through his tighter.

 “Whatever you want,” Derek breathes.

 Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You’re not going to let me get away with everything now, are you? Because while in theory that sounds nice, in practice I don’t think it’s going to go down so well.”

 Derek clears his throat and Stiles can see the corner of his lips settling into a smirk. Wide hands come at Stiles, yanking him over so that he ends up on Derek’s lap, face just in front of Derek’s. He glares at Stiles to be quiet when he giggles, and Stiles bites his lip

 "You don't have to worry about that,” he whispers, eyes dark.

 His mouth parts as he takes in Derek’s teasing expression and Stiles kisses him again. Derek’s arms are a warm, safe hold and it feels good like this. He lets himself press harder into Derek, remembering that he never actually got enough of this when they were together, so he gives into the feel of it a little.

 “Slow,” Derek reminds him, loosening his hold and Stiles nods. Derek slides down the bed and pulls Stiles to him, the rise and fall of Derek’s chest calming. Sleep is easy to fall into.

 >>

 Stiles wakes alone, eyes blurry. He goes to sit and feels deathly uncomfortable in his jeans. His phone is still in his pocket and he’s got a few missed texts from Scott and a missed call from Lydia. He smiles to himself, still feeling on the sheets where Derek had been.

 He hears footsteps at the door and then the sound of quiet chatter.

 “Why do you have two mugs?” It’s Laura’s voice.

 “Thirsty,” Derek replies after a beat.

 “Uh huh,” she says. “Say hi to him for me.”

 He hears some shuffling and a low groan from the other side of the door.

 “Laura,” he hears Derek complain. “I can’t exactly hug you when I’m holding two cups of coffee.”

 “Right,” Laura says, and then the door opens and Derek steps through with a small smile. It’s the first time in a while Stiles has seen him look so happy, with his shirt crinkled and hair a mess. Stiles rubs his eyes and smiles back.

>>

  Derek drops him back home after taking him out for breakfast. They had managed to slip past the rest of Derek’s family, except Cora, who had begun to squeal loudly just as Stiles shut the front door. He’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes, feeling a little tired but a whole lot lighter. It’s a little scary, giving himself to someone again, but whenever he catches Derek’s eye his smile is quick and bright in response.

 They don’t get far when Derek offers to walk him to the front door, it swinging open and Stiles’ father stands with his gun in its holster and a wary expression on his face.

 “Really, Stiles?” he says. Derek freezes beside him and slowly pulls his fingers from Stiles’.

 “Yes, Dad.”

 John lets out a sigh, running his hands over his face before his unsettled stare focuses on Derek. “You don’t ever get to leave my son the way you did,” he threatens. “You want out, you do it properly. I don’t care about misunderstandings, you do it properly.”

 “I don’t think I’ll ever want out,” Derek says, voice travelling over the breeze.

 John’s expression darkens.

 “I promise,” Derek says firmly, not cowering. His hand reaches out to brush against Stiles’ again and he squeezes. Derek’s eyes flit over and delicately wander over his face. “I promise,” he says again, voice sincere.

 Stiles nods, feeling a little dizzy. Derek leaves him there before he heads back to his car, and Stiles steps up to the house. His father watches him with a hint of frustration in his eyes.

 “I just hope you’re being careful,” John tells him, eyes scattered with worry.

 “Yeah,” he says. “I am.”

>> 

 He’s already been on the phone with Lydia for the better part of an hour, and it’s not hard to hear Lydia’s frustration leak at him through the ear piece. Stiles winces when she accuses him of keeping things from her, and he lets her talk.

 “I hope you’re making the right decision, Stiles,” Lydia warns him.

 “Me too.”  

 “I wish you told me just how much of him you were actually seeing,” she says again, her frown evident through the phone. “And,” she says, “I’m not going to let the only people you know in New York be Derek and his friends. You need someone else there.”

 Stiles throws his feet on the coffee table, figuring he’s going to be on the phone for a little while longer. “Okay,” he says. “But who else is going to be there?”

 She clears her throat and pauses for a little too long. “I know this job has been in the works for you for a while, so, I may have applied to transfer to the New York offices.”

 “What? Really?”

 “I’ve already found a place not far from yours.”

 There’s a beat before Stiles yells and jumps to his feet. “Are you serious? New York?”

 She laughs. “Yes. I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”

 “And Derek,” Stiles says dryly and she simply hums.

 “Can’t wait to see you, Lyds.”

>> 

 “Before I go to New York –”

 “And you’re sure you’ve got a place to stay?”

 Stiles rolls his eyes, pushing himself up so that he’s no longer leaning against Derek’s side. He puts a hand on Derek’s knee to keep his balance, settling on the couch.

 “ _Yes_ , Derek. I don’t need your apartment. Anyway, Dad wants you to have dinner or lunch with us.”

 Derek cuts of the sound of the television with the remote and leans back into the couch, trying to hide his sigh. “Okay,” his voice is tight when he agrees.

 Stiles smirks. “I don’t really think you have a choice in the matter.”

 Discomfort lurks over Derek’s shoulders, his face looking slightly drained. Stiles squeezes Derek’s knee, a small laugh on his lips. “You’ll be fine.”

 “Your family is never going to like me again, are they?” he says flatly.

 “Hey,” Stiles whispers softly, climbing onto Derek’s lap. He cups his face and forces Derek to look him in the eye. “Give them time. And while you wait, you have me.”

 Derek looks unconvinced that Stiles’ friends will ever come around. There’s not much else to say other than promising to be around, always, so that they can get to know each other properly again. Derek’s hand roams up Stiles’ shirt, spreading over his chest before bunching the material at the collar and pulling Stiles forward. He offers a short kiss, a little hard, before gently pushing Stiles off him.

 “I have to go now,” he says, pressing his mouth to Stiles’ forehead. Stiles’ heart sighs, his skin buzzing with content. They haven’t hit the world yet, but now, safe in their homes, things have been easy. Nice.

 In a couple of days Stiles is moving to New York while Derek stays in Beacon Hills for a little while longer. Stiles leans back against the cushions, smiling to himself because now he gets Derek. He gets Derek, he gets new start, and with his friends too he’s allowed to be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With the end of the last chapter and the beginning of this one, I wanted to remind everyone in the story that Stiles is going to make mistakes too. Obviously not as bad as the ones Derek made, but I wanted them to be on equal footing as much as possible.
> 
> Anyway! Thank you so much to everyone for reading and for your comments. I really appreciate them and you guys have really helped shape the story.
> 
> I think there will be one more chapter after this one! I'm going to try and tie up loose ends, mention Peter and Kira and everything.
> 
> Thanks again, you guys have been amazing.
> 
>    
> Here's my [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)
> 
> (Also, I deliberated Stiles climbing in through Derek's window but it didn't quite make the cut :D )


	18. Chapter 18

 Everything is a little hectic when Stiles arrives in New York. Scott comes up and helps him move in; eyeing his new roommate like he is afraid he might steal Stiles. He rolls his eyes at his friend and promises him that they’ll Skype frequently.

 His roommate is nice enough, if a little absent. Stiles doesn’t mind, though it would’ve been nice to make another friend. When Lydia arrives things seem to lock into place. They’re extremely happy to see each other and neither of them even mentions Derek until it’s late and they’re covered in blankets in front of Stiles’ tv.

 Lydia looks at him.

 “So, have you heard from your hot piece of ass?”

 Stiles narrows his eyes and shoves her shoulder. He can’t help the tiny smile that plays up on his face. “Yes, actually.” He hears from Derek every night, even if it is briefly. “He’s coming in just over a week.”

 “Can’t wait to see him,” she replies absently, and they both turn back to the screen. Stiles wishes that they’ll get on one day, but right now Stiles understands Lydia’s reaction. He doesn’t want to fight with her about it and everything with Derek is happening slowly anyway.

 Of course Lydia’s apartment is all around nicer than Stiles’. It has a passable view and doesn’t have the sound of cars rushing by in the middle of the night. Stiles doesn’t care too much. His job is going well. He likes the city and the fact there are so many people that he can pass by unnoticed.

 At work it’s simply professional. He’s one of the youngest there and the rest don’t bat an eyelid when they’re introduced. Stiles feels lighter. He gets to do his work, he learns everyone’s names, and he gets to keep his personal life as private as he would like. It’s good. It’s really good.

 When he first sees Derek since being in Beacon Hills he blushes. They stare at each other, smiling nervously, while Derek scuffs his shoe along the carpet at his door.

 “Hey,” Derek says, fingers curling around each other nervously. The bandages are gone.

 “Hi,” Stiles says back, reaching forward and pulling Derek into the small space. He shows him around even if the tour takes less than a minute. Derek sort of looks at him the whole time like he can’t quite believe his luck.

 Stiles leans forward and places a gentle kiss on Derek’s lips before coaxing them open. He sighs into Derek, then smiles, because he has the promise of seeing Derek as frequently as he would like.

 “Do you want me to meet your roommate?” Derek asks him later, when they’re both sitting in front of the tv, empty bowls of dinner set on the coffee table. Derek had helped him cook.

 He frowns. “I – it would be easier not having to sneak around him. He seems pretty cool.” He hesitates. “I don’t think he’d say anything to anyone.”

 Derek gives him a considering look, and he kisses the corner of Stiles’ lips before he leaves. All they did was sit and talk. They teased each other and spoke about easy things, and Stiles remembers why he likes Derek so much.

 When his roommate meets Derek for the first time he drops his glass of milk over his shoes. Stiles raises an eyebrow at him, hearing his little squeak. A few seconds later Derek’s lawyer comes through the door and sets a confidentiality agreement under his roommate’s nose.

 Stiles knows he’s not going to break it. They’re both in a bit of debt and there is no way his roommate’s going to spill any of their secrets. There’s no way he’s going to tell anyone about his and Derek’s relationship. And so, Derek doesn’t have to be as careful when he comes around. They don’t have to plan around Stiles’ roommate’s hours.

 All the awkwardness dies down after a while. The fact Derek is a celebrity becomes boring – especially if his roommate can’t talk about it.

 Stiles does go to Derek’s apartment once in a while. It’s a lot more expensive looking than his own with it's better, less run down furniture. There are a thousand musical instruments and Stiles’ mouth almost watered when he first walked inside. The problem is that the public knows Derek lives there, and Stiles may be paranoid but he doesn’t want to be seen entering the space where Derek lives. As far as the world knows, they’re not together.

>> 

  Derek’s been recording a new album and sometimes Stiles will go to the studio to listen. It’s quite something, seeing Derek work, and it’s not as scary as he thought it would be. Seeing a song come together sets him a little at ease, and he figures out that it’s not all a mess of frantic ideas and emotions. Lots of work goes into it.

 It makes _that_ song sting a little more, but only slightly. Derek smiles at him from the recording booth, eyes soft and that look is clearly only for Stiles.

 He likes to watch Derek. The man is sort of beautiful when he’s singing or has his hands on a guitar. Derek catches him looking quite a bit and will smirk, knowing what Stiles is thinking, and then afterwards Stiles has trouble keeping his hands off him.

 Erica is often there. Sometimes she’ll come back with them to the apartment – where Stiles has found the best method for slipping in unnoticed – and at first it was a little awkward. She was a little sceptical of Stiles, wondering why he was even here if he got hurt so badly. She thought that maybe Stiles would want to get back at Derek.

 It was a little ridiculous, but Stiles is glad that Derek has people who care fiercely about him.

 But then she gets it; she starts understanding how he feels when they’re ganging up on Derek to tease him, when Stiles tries to kiss his scowl away. Stiles is here for him. Not for anything else, and definitely not for payback or the fame.

 “I guess you’re okay,” she tells him one evening.

 Stiles rolls his eyes. “I guess _you’re_ okay.”

 Erica grins, and there’s only a small glint of warning. “Derek’s kind of gone on you. It’s nice to know you care about the real him, and not the him he lets other people see. Even so.”

 He meets her wide smile, showing his teeth. It’s sort of nice not being the only one constantly looked after. “Derek’s a big baby, isn’t he? It’d be cruel to hurt him.”

 She snorts. “Good.” Her eyes flick over Stiles’ shoulder, and he squeals when he feels Derek pinch at his sides.

 “Hey!” he bats Derek’s hands away and Derek leans forward to growl in his ear.

 “I’ll let you two lovebirds have fun,” Erica drawls, picking her things up and heading out of the apartment. Stiles turns into Derek’s arms, smirking. He looks affronted at being called a baby, and he draws Stiles near, frowning to hide his smile.

 “You two are getting along,” he says quietly, before pressing their lips together. Stiles kisses him harder and they’ve been going ‘slow’ for about five months now. Sometimes things get a little heated but Derek will break away, their shirts on the floor, and he’ll pull Stiles to his side to talk some more.

 They’ve been doing a lot of talking and getting to know each other. They bicker. It’s been fun and Stiles wants more now. He wants to feel Derek over him, skin on skin. He wants to bite at Derek’s lips, move down his neck and let his hands wander down to unbuckle Derek’s belt.

 The idea of being with Derek where anyone can see them doesn’t scare him so much anymore. Sometimes Derek will prove to be absolutely dense and sometimes Stiles will irritate the hell out of Derek, but they’re learning. Stiles can see them lasting and he’s not so scared of an end anymore.

 One evening, Stiles decides he’s going to go for it. He eyes Derek all night like he’s undressing him and Derek’s cheeks pink up. Erica has noticed and she sits at the table, amused, wondering why Derek even invited her around.

 Derek obviously wasn’t aware of Stiles’ plans but he sure is now.

 They continue to dance around each other and Stiles passes close behind Derek’s back, he nudges his foot under the table and he has that half smirk on his face that he now knows drives Derek crazy.

 His body feels warm all over but his smile falters when they hear a key play at the lock. Derek drops the dishcloth he’s using and all three of them turn to the door. Time stops when there’s a shuffle of feet and they all stare at Peter Hale’s tired eyes.

 Erica is on her feet, snarling, and she pushes him out the door.

 She’s not quick enough to stop the considering tilt of Peter’s head as his eyes land on Stiles. “So you crawled back to him,” he says. “Interesting.”

 It’s far too quiet when the door slams shut. The two of them stand absolutely still before Derek’s wide eyed, frazzled gaze turns to Stiles. He hesitates before stepping near.

 “Stiles?” he asks.

 “Why the hell was he able to get in here?” Stiles hisses at him, knocking Derek’s hands away as he tries to reach out to him.

 Derek’s eyes flicker. “I honestly didn’t think he’d have the fucking nerve to show up.”

 Stiles sighs, but he lets Derek pull him in and he rests his chin on Derek’s shoulder. He feels Derek turn his head and press his lips to the line of Stiles’ hair. “He’s going to tell everyone,” he mumbles into Derek’s clothes. “He’s going to tell everyone.”

 He knows his voice is panicked and he knows he’s freaking Derek out a little when he feels Derek’s fingertips press harder into his sides, like he’s afraid Stiles is going to want out. He hates that Peter can do this. Hates it.

 He refuses to let Peter make another dent in his life, refuses to let someone hold so much power over him. Stiles lifts his head and brings his hands to cup Derek’s face. “He isn’t worth anything,” he growls softly. “I’m not going to let him get to me.”

 Derek looks him in the eye. “You’re going to stay?”

 Stiles nods.

 “Even if the public knows about us?”

 He nods again and then his face is getting littered with kisses. Stiles feels Derek smiling over his skin; over his cheeks and jaw and forehead and lips. He pushes Derek into the fridge door and hears a couple of magnets and some paper fall to the ground. The kisses Derek gives him now are so full of promise and intent and neither of them hesitate when they trip over each other’s ankles to the couch. It’s hot and frantic and Derek pulls at his hair, panting heavily as Stiles moves to his neck.

 They’re on their way to losing all their clothes when they hear the door click open. It’s Erica.

 “Really?” she yells, and Stiles looks up, grinning a little and feeling flushed. Derek keeps on kissing his neck mumbling something that sounds like _go away_ to Erica. She huffs and grabs her bag.

“I don’t think she liked that too much,” Stiles says, but Derek shrugs.

 “She’ll get over it.”

 And then he pulls Stiles to him.

>> 

 He does Derek a favour and freaks out in front of Lydia. Peter hasn’t said anything to the public yet, but there was a piece of news that said he was now Jennifer Blake’s manager. Stiles doesn’t really care about that. He thinks the two deserve each other.

 Apparently Peter had turned up to ‘talk business’ before Erica dragged him away. Now the locks have changed and the doorman knows not to let Peter Hale anywhere near the building. That still doesn’t stop the mild feeling of attack over his skin.

 Lydia marches over to him and grabs his shoulders. He stops pacing. “Look,” she says. “You knew what you were getting into with Derek. I may not like him but I have to admit that he does care about you.”

 “Does that mean you’ll accept his invitation to come over more often?” he mumbles. Lydia ignores him.

 “It won’t be like before, I promise,” she says softly. She sighs. “Maybe you should think about doing things on your own terms. Before Peter does them for you.”

Which is how Stiles finds himself on some restaurant’s balcony. Derek sits opposite him, looking unfairly handsome in a crisp, white shirt. It contrasts with Stiles’ red one and he didn’t mean to but he kind of matches the restaurant’s interior design.

 It’s lunch time and he almost knocks his drink over when he orders.

 “Hey,” Derek says, reaching over and taking his hand. “We can go inside, if you’d like.”

 Stiles shakes his head. They sit in the sun, the breeze tickling at their hair and they know that little men and their cameras can see them. Stiles’ heart is fluttering and his eyes widen when he sees someone hovering on the sidewalk.

 “Yep, that was definitely a camera,” he says.

 “That’s the whole point, Stiles.”

 “I know,” he snaps, but then he exhales.

 They keep their eyes on each other the whole meal, and Stiles doesn’t feel alone in this. The food is delicious and Derek is going to pay if he insists on dragging Stiles out to an expensive restaurant. They don’t stay afterwards for another drink or for any of the cakes or slices the waitress offers them.

 The photos are all over the magazines but the hype doesn’t last long. He's not interesting anymore and he supposes his fifteen minutes of fame have already been used up – not that he ever asked for them.

 He also has the decency to warn his father about the photos this time.

 “I guess it’s only time before one of you slips up,” he says. “And know your rights, Stiles. If someone starts harassing you, make sure you know what you can do. Call me if it gets tough.”

 Stiles says everything he can to stop his father from worrying.

 Kira sends him a photo with the headline _Derek Hale Has Found Love Again_ behind her on the stands. He rings her up and confirms, remembering that she had been around the first time his face had been printed on that paper.

 “And you’re happy?” she asks him, gushing a little.

 “Yeah, he’s _almost_ as awesome as you said he was.”

 The best part about it all is that the people at his work don’t fucking care who he dates. He may get one or two disbelieving looks but that’s it. He does his job exactly the same as he did before, and he relishes in the fact that he’s known as Stiles and not as Derek Hale’s boyfriend.

 He may have had to report one person for trying too hard to dive into his business. The person had sorely miscalculated Stiles’ threshold for putting up with bullshit, and his boss was very helpful. He feels like this time around he has support from all sides. His family, Lydia, Scott, his work, and of course Derek.

 And the fans. The fans have been wonderfully supportive. It’s more than Stiles expected. For Stiles’ next birthday, Derek flies all his friends up. He meets Kira, who at the end of the night and after a few drinks, shows Derek how wildly and brilliantly creative his fans are. There’s even artwork of Stiles and Derek together, wishing them luck and more good songs.

 It’s different. Stiles is not sure how to feel about it, but of course, it’s better than the alternative.

 Scott comes to the apartment and Stiles practically jumps on him. His mouth his gaping when he takes in the size of Derek’s place and Lydia comes up behind Scott and whacks him in the back of the head. Scott grumbles at her as Lydia reaches up to kiss Stiles on the cheek, but the boy can’t hide his grin.

 “Good to see you, man! You know, in person, instead of on the internet or something,” he says.

 Stiles shoves his arm. “Dude, we Skype almost every night.”

 “Still miss you,” Scott says, but then he spots Kira near the kitchen and he happily treads over. “Happy Birthday!” He calls over his shoulder.

 Stiles rolls his eyes.

 Erica and Boyd are there, and to Stiles’ surprise, half way through the evening his father and Cora come tumbling through the door. She grins at him.

 “Sorry we’re late, car trouble in this city is never fun,” she tells him.

 When his father hugs him Stiles thinks that this is maybe the best birthday he’s ever had. He grins at Derek over his father’s shoulder, mouthing a thank you. Derek drops his gaze to his feet, looking pleased with himself.

“You look good, son,” John tells him, ruffling his hair. “Derek treating you well?”

 “Dad.” He groans at how serious his words are. “Honestly. It’s nice to see you.”

 “I guess it’s not too terrible dating a celebrity if he can afford to fly your old man up to see you every now and then,” John says, smirking. “Happy Birthday.”

 He still eyes Derek throughout the whole evening and Stiles only worries a little when John, Scott and Lydia all start talking to each other in a little group. They’re still not Derek’s biggest fans. Stiles moves up to Derek’s side when he sees him start to get a little agitated, and Stiles kisses the corner of his mouth.

 “Thanks for this,” he whispers, his fingers nudging Derek’s chin so that they look each other in the eye. Derek looks away from Lydia and John and his gaze floats to Stiles’ lips. They kiss until Erica makes a noise.

 Stiles grins at her and Boyd puts an arm around her shoulders.

 “Maybe it’s time for us to leave,” he says dryly, nodding at Stiles and Derek. When they head out Kira, Scott and Lydia go with them to a bar. It’s something Derek never, ever does and Stiles would much rather stay in with his boyfriend.

 Cora bounces over to them. “So, it’s nice to see things working out.”

 “Don’t you have school?” Stiles asks her.

 She waves his words aside with a scoff. “It’s one weekend.”

 “She begged me to come,” Derek tells him blankly.

 “We all wanted to know how you are, and now I only have good things to report.” Derek sighs and his sister grins. “I will happily take the couch and Stiles’ dad can take the spare room.” Cora wiggles her eyebrows. “You two can –”

 “Cora!” Derek snaps at her and Stiles laughs.

 After they clean the place up they fall tiredly onto Derek’s mattress. Stiles kicks off his shoes and pulls Derek’s body to his, kissing him softly.

 “I have a gift for you,” Derek says, mouthing over Stiles’ collarbone.

 “I thought the party was your gift,” he says a little breathlessly, legs locking around Derek’s waist. Derek sits up and Stiles frowns. He puts his weight on his elbows and stares up at Derek’s slightly red cheeks.

 “It was. Just. Um, remember when I had to get the locks redone?” he asks.

 Stiles nods, his lip curling a little at the thought of Peter. When he had called Derek up again Derek had turned down his business offer very quickly and very angrily. Peter had then confirmed his nephew’s relationship in an interview, using some not very nice words, and Talia had given him a very thorough grilling afterwards.

 Derek leans forward and kisses him when he sees that Stiles’ mind has wandered. Stiles melts into it, forgetting, and it feels like gold having Derek’s body against his. Just when it’s getting really good, Derek pulls back again. This time is hair is in a mess and his lips look red.

 “Right,” says Stiles. “It’s my birthday. Presents.”

 Derek calms his breathing and then swallows. “I have a key for you,” he blurts out. “Um, I gave one to Erica and Laura and there’s one for you, if you’d like it. It doesn’t mean you have to move in with me,” he’s quick to say, “It means that you can come here even when I’m not. Even when I’m in another city.”

 Stiles licks his lips, staring up at Derek.

 “I know you still have a flat and a roommate, but I’d like for you to have a key,” Derek tells him. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a flat piece of metal. Stiles takes it into his hand, heart beating strong as their fingers brush.

 “Of course I’ll have your damn key,” Stiles tells him.

 Derek grins back at him. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “I’m glad you stayed.”

 Stiles’ amber eyes glow as he pushes his hands around Derek’s neck. “You’re not ever getting rid of me,” he warns, and they’re both perfectly okay with that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end! I can't believe I actually wrote something so long.
> 
> Thanks so much to everyone for reading and sticking around. It means a lot:) And thank you to anyone who commented and to everyone who commented regularly. You guys made me want to continue so lots of love to you!
> 
>    
> Here's my [tumblr.](http://matildajones.tumblr.com)


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